LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Slielf.__H;7.. 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



COTHUENUS AID LYRE. 



BY 



EDWAED J, HAEDIE'G. 





NEW YORK! 
THE AUTHOES' PUBLISHING COMPANY. 

1878, 



T 



vH7 



NOTICE. 

The sole right to print, re-print, publish, re-publish, revise, vend, pub- 
licly perform, or cause to be publicly performed, dramatize and trans- 
late " Cothurnus and Lyre," in whole or in part, is expressly reserved. 

William J. Harding. 
Chakles p. Bull. 

Copyrighted, 1878, by William J. Harding and Charles P. Bull. 



V^) 



INTRODUCTION. 



The contents of this little volume are the work of a young. 
English book-keeper at present residing in New York, and 
were composed in the scanty leisure of his evenings and early 
mornings. 

New York, Novemher 23, 1877. 



(3) 



CONTENTS. 

Introduction 3 

PROIiOGUE 7 

ERNEST. a 

ActI 11 

Act II 29 

Act III 47 

Act IV 64 

Act V 76 

Samson IN Chains 93 

ODES : BOOK I. 
I. To lOLE 101 

II. To lOLE 102 

III. To Pan 103 

IV. Ad Urbem et Orbem 104 

V. To Ne^ra 106 

VI. To Myself 107 

VII. Erotic 108 

/III. At Random 110 

IX, To Fortune 112 

X. To Leuconoe 112 

XL To A Young Writer 113 

XII. To Sleep 114 

XIII. To Phcebus Apollo 114 

XIV. To 0. B. Frothingham 116 

XV. In Praise of Lucretia 117 

XVI. Unentitled 119 

XVII. To Aulus Julius Rufus 119 

XVIII. To a Terminal Head of Apollo 121 

Notes 125 

(5) 



PROLOGUE. 

This is my heart, Sybaritic world ! 
Wiirt please you to behold it, masters mine 1 
Marry, 'tis not so luscious as a peach, 
Nor hath it the fine flavor of your pippin — 
'Tis in the wrong for that ; I cry you mercy ! 
But these same cursed Muses, look you, friends. 
When they do love a man, why, they will use him 
(Saving your presence) as the vampires would ; 
And many a time beneath the stony stars 
When you, fair sirs, are sleeping sound abed. 
They circumcise his heart and quaff his blood. 
And lash him with a scourge of knotty rhymes 
About his garret until morning bares 
Her bosoms rosy-budded, golden-girt. 
That you, sweet souls, may have a simple song 
Served with your breakfast. He nor peace of mind 
Nor woman's love, nor necessary friends, 
Nor any hope of mortal happiness 
May long enjoy ; the Furies at his hearth 
Sit uninvited ; to his grave he goes, 
Hanged with a halter of his own harp-strings ! 

Wherefore it comes, good friends, this heart of mine 
Hath lost his early bloom and springtide smell ; 
'Twill none the less serve for a little sport. 
So please you, I will be your worships' guide 
Over the surface of this microcosm : 
I am familiar with it — give me leave. 
This ugly hole was cloven by a girl 



PROLOGUE. 

To fill the leisure of a summer's day ; 

It aches a little sometimes even yet : 

'Tis at your service — probe it with your fingers — 

Ay ! ay ! you hurt me ! — you are welcome, sirs ; 

I wait upon your pleasure — spare not me ! — 

Here is another seam, black as a coal ; 

That is your work, my fair and gentle world ; 

And this long fissure like a scarlet thread 

My proper hands did rend, and not another's. 

Puny and paltry, scarred and marred, you see ; 
The worms have pierced it like your honeycomb ; 
But yet it hath one virtue ; mark, my masters 1 
We poets groan in music ; crush our hearts 
(As you would crush the roses for their scent) 
And they shall pour you a full flask of song : 
Now try the spell upon this rusticoat ; 
Squeeze it — an ode ! — pray you, again, — a satire ! 
'Mass, and I told you true ! would for your sakes 
That I could wail you more melodiously ; 
But pray content you ! what I can, I will ; 
I'll go acquire the true Italian measure 
To antic my despair in better time ; 
Till when, forgive me of your courtesy. 

Now throw the bauble to the whistling winds ! 
You are aweary, and it is not meet 
That you should soil your excellent white hands 
With such a butcher's toy ; pah ! the blood reeks ! 
Out on't — the dogs will find it soon enough ! 
May 26, 1877. 



ERNEST. 



Old vitam par iter et mortem 
Dedit Melancholia.— BvR'ro^''a Epitaph. 



(9) 



CHARACTERS. 



ERNEST FORTESCUE, country gentleman. 
JOSEPH LORLVIER, his cousin, heir to his estates. 
OWEN STUCKEY, student of medicine and the sciences. 
CARROLL, retired merchant, guardian to Eva. 
JOHN, gardener to Carroll. 
PETER PAUL JEROME, cook to Fortescue. 

EVA TREVELYAN, betrothed to Ernest. 
ADA, daughter to Carroll. 
AGNES, former servant to Fortescue. 
MARY, servant to Carroll. 

Fisherman, Servants, Guests, etc. 



Tlie scene is laid at a seaside village in the west of England, and tho 

a 
action passes in the present Victorian age. 



(10 



COTHUENUS AND LYEE. 



ERNEST. 



ACT I. 

SCENE 1.— Sea-beach, at the foot of a semicircle of cliffs : time, early 
evening. Eater Owen and Ada, from opposite , 



Owen. Whither so fast this fine evening. Miss Carroll 1 

Ada. What, Mr, Stuckey, is it you 1 you are well met, sir — 
I was longing for a pair of ears to pour my sorrows into. 
That tiresome papa of mine has been lecturing me again ; he 
has such old-fashioned notions of decorum that it's positively 
an anachronism to listen to him ; I can't conceive where he 
picked them up — not from me, I'm sure — I hate decorum from 
the bottom of my heart. 

Owen. Fathers, my dear Miss Ada, are an eccentric species ; 
it is impossible to differentiate and define them like other ani- 
mals ; one never knows where to have them. But after all, 
they serve a useful purpose in the order of creation, you know. 

Ada. I admit it ; they are wanted to pay their daughters' 
bills ; but then they should confine themselves to their duties, 
and not forget their station so far as to reprimand their em- 
ployers. You know how poor papa's sentences are perpetually 

(11) 



12 COTHVRNUS AND LYRE. 

losing themselves in their own recesses, like rivers that run 
underground % well, this evening he was worse than ever — he 
would disappear with a blessing and emerge with a curse — it 
was as hard to follow him as to trace a labyrinth in a quag- 
mire ; and at last he dropped off to sleep by way of perora- 
tion, and I left him breathing inarticulate thunder to the cat. 

Owen. Heavens ! that was entirely out of order, for the 
preacher to snore at his own sermon ! 

Ada. Out of order ? what would you have 7 papa is chaos 
in coat and trousers. 0, if I were only a man, I could make 
a shift to be happy ; nature formed me for the combat, I feel 
— and yet I must content myself with boxing a husband's ears 
and carving reputations among a parcel of dowagers ! the 
irony of fate ! the perversity of chance ! — But I don't know 
why I am taking you into my confidence so freely, unless it is 
that you are a physician in the shell. 

Owen. Let me assure you. Miss Ada, that your confidence 
in me will not be misplaced. 

Ada. Not misplaced perhaps, but mislaid — for you will push 
it into some corner of your memory, between your tailor's ad- 
dress and the date of the next occiiltation of Arcturus, where 
it will never see the light again. A woman is a better confi- 
dant than a mart, after all ; for if she does proclaim upon the 
housetop the thing she has sworn to conceal, she at least 
shows an appreciation of the merits of your secret — whereas 
if you honor a man with your confidence, he hies him home 
and forgets it with all his might. 

Owen. What can I say. Miss Ada, except to protest 

Ada. Say nothing — it is I that am carrying on this dialogue 
— your part is nothing but listening, to misquote Peter Quince. 
Look at Eva Trevelyan ; what a fortunate girl she is ! In the 
first place she is an orphan ; in the next place she is beautiful 



Act 1., Scene I.] ERNEST. 13 

and sweet-tempered ; and then she has a lover who adores the 
very soup she swallows. By-the-bye, there is something about 
him that whets my curiosity extremely ; he has a certain air 
of fiei-ce melancholy which one seldom sees in an unmarried 
man. Do you know the cause of it 1 

Owen. That is a sad story. Miss Ada. You shall hear it, 
since you have been so frank with me— but pray don't repeat 
it for the world ! You must know then that Ernest Fortescue, 
a man of acres, proud as a Plantagenet, ambitious to his fin- 
ger-nails, and beloved by the sweetest girl in all England save 
one, is a slave. A slave 1 yes, worse — there is not an exile in 
the Siberian mines who would change places with him to-day. 
Ada. What "? whati a slave 1 how so 1 
Owen. The man is an opium-eater. 
Ada. An opium-eater ! impossible ! 

Owen. He is an opium-eater, and what is worse, I fear he is 
incurable. He has tried every means of escape, but always in 
vain, and now he lies at the very bottom of despair. Poor 
fellow ! I pity him with all my heart — the more because he 
was not altogether to blame. His nature has been utterly 
poisoned by his evil fortune ; I remember him only a few years 
ago as open and fresh and generous as the day ; now he is 
merry and morose by turns, and lonely as yonder sea. Poor 
old Fortescue ! 

Ada. Poor fellow ! poor fellow ! But how does Eva take 
if? 

Owen, She knows nothing of it : he has never had the heart 
to tell her. I am his only confidant, and my office is a very 
painful one. The poor fellow is at times altogether frenzied ; 
he fancies all the powers that be are leagued against him 
for his destruction : he speaks of his God with a kind of per- 
sonal rancor, and erects an idol for the mere pleasure of bias- 



14 COTHURNUS AND LYRE. 

pheming it. He will declaim for an hour against what he calls 
the tyranny of the gods, and find his revenge in launching an 
epigram at their expense. A hundred times I have heard him 
rail himself into good humor in this way ; he will begin with 
the most furious invectives and tragical attitudes, and end with 
a peal of laughter, rolling under his tongue the choicest mor- 
sels of his own spleen. What can you do with such a man % 
I have proved to him again and again that his position is 
illogical ; I say to him, Let x equal the unknown quantity 
which you call 

Ada. Spare me your demonstrations, my dear sir ! I cannot 
eidure to hear all that I find mysterious and adorable reduced 
to terms of x and y, — Here comes the man himself ! let us go ! 
his electric atmosphere always oppresses me — pray bring me 
to some shelter. 

Owen. Agreed — but he looks ill — I will return soon and try 

to cheer him up. Come, then ! 

(Exeunt.) 

Enter Ernest. 

Ernest. What a brave mummery of the clouds is here ! 

Some couiiterfeiting birds with wine-dipt wings. 

Footless, ethereal ; some like scarlet poppies 

In golden grain ; some like to v/reaths of snow, 

Or plumy waterfalls and coral reefs. 

Lagoons, and orange-groves, and mossy hills. 

Yea, the old ocean's self makes merry awhile, 

And all his way-worn billows are transformed 

To naked Naiads rolling rosily. 

It was my fancy when I was a child 

That yon fair lights that gleam upon the brow 

Of every blushing wave, were like the vision 

Which cheered the patriarch on his couch of stone — 



Act I., Scene I.] EBNIHST. j_5 

A ladder with its topmost rounds in heaven ; 

And, gazing with a child's eyes, I could see 

White angel-wings on every flaming stair. 

And at the top the hills of pearl and gold. 

Parted by bluest waters virginal 

And valleys of inviolate loveliness. 

Now I am wiser; now at last I know 

The emptiness of yonder splendid skies — .7 

Palaces uninhabited, that mock us 

With blazing windows — mirrors that reflect 

Nothing to gilded nothing : I have spied 

The nakedness of yon celestial country. 
Be-enter Owen, 
Owen. Good-morrow, friend ! still in the doles 1 for shame ! 

Keep up your head, man I patience conquers all : 

How fares it with you '? 
Ernest. As with other cowards ; 

I have fought the ill fight ; I have run my course : 
Henceforth for me there is a crown laid up 
Of dust and ashes. 
Owen. Not so ; there is time ! 

You cannot root the forest from her soil 
With the same implements, the same scant labor 
The weeding gardener needs. Courage, my friend ! 
What ! is not Eva's hand worth all your pains, 
Though you were struggling in the hydra's coils 
With greater than Laocoon's agonies 1 
Ernest. She is too sweet a morsel for a man ; 

The gods will have her : and for mine own part 
My rights are forfeit. Let me tell you, friend. 
Were it a foreign foe I had to meet, 
I know my duty : but what cunning smith 



16 COTHUBNUS AND LYRE. 

Can forge a helmet that shall fence the head 

Against the rude rebellion of the heart 1 

My curse upon that botcher at his craft — 

More knave than fool, methinks — who built and launched 

me 
Without a helm upon these howling seas ! 
Almighty God '? almighty charlatan. 
Assassin, coward ! — My good friend and pedant. 
What strain of alleluias can I sing 
To him that made me, when I feel myself 
Planned with a devilish ingenuity 
To sink and not to swim, to break, not bendl 
When I am still the victim of myself. 
And all I have of generous or of good 
Gnaws at me like the dogs in Scylla's womb 1 
I, plead for pardon from this miserable. 
This damnable, this thing ! Rather shall he 
Crouch for forgiveness here ! 
Owen. Good words ! good words ! 

What need of this 7 you cannot win your freedom 
By roaring through the bars. Adjust yourself 
To Nature and the working of her wheels. 
Or some swift revolution seizes you 
And hurls you, bitten by a thousand teeth. 
Into the hopper — not a hero's fate ; 
A madman's rather. Cease to fight with windmills I 
The irresistible must have its way. 
Let the past be ; you cannot mend it now ; 
As for the future, it is plastic yet. 
And yours to make or mar — the Lachesis 
That weaves your fate is Ernest Fortescue, 
None else. 



Act I., Scene I.] EENEST. 17 

Ernest. True, Herr Magister Lobesan ! 

Most true, and very trite ; but let me tell you. 

If I could pluck from heaven with my two hands 

This full-fed God, this plump aristocrat, 

I'd hang him on a lamp-stem like a dog. 

And make the world his heir. 

Ha ! ha ! what fustian ! 

Good ! good ! ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 
Owen. Yes, now you laugh! 

The winds are not more variable than you j 

How will your laughter help you 1 tell me that I 
Ernest. If I am inconsistent, so is God ; 

To-day he gives me smiles, to-morrow tears, 

A bride at morning, and at night a dunghill ; 

I cannot rise above my source's level : 

Such as I am, I am — and God himself 

Can say no more. 
Owen. You are incorrigible ! 

I'll quit you — fare-you-well ! 
Ernest. Adieu, my friend ! 

{Exit Owen.) 

Spirit of evil ! sower of the chaos. 

Outlaw of outlaws, omnipresent foe ! 

Upon whose helm the fire of battle burns 

Unwavering, unextinguished, unappeased. 

Mocking to scorn the puny thunderbolts 

Flung by the soft Olympian's rosy hands — 

Thou hast prevailed ; I yield me to thy grace. 

In vain have I withstood for many a year 

Thy girdled siege, thy stratagems and storms ; 

I have lost all : the good God hides his head 

And quits me in ray misery like a rat — 



18 COTHURNUS AND LYRE. 

So may the overruling Destinies 
Do unto him, and more ! 

But for thyself. 
Great Power of 111, thou art in league with all 
That lovely is ; the flowers fight for thee ; 
Thine is the vine ; the birds are in thy pay ; 
The Graces don thy starry panoply ; 
Thou marchest to the soft Ionian strains 
Of young Apollo ; dreams are spies of thine, 
And the sweet summer bears thy banner forth : „ 
While I have nothing but this feeble heart. 
The half of which is thine — nay, take it all ! 
Woe to the conquered ! 

Plead for thyself, God ! potter of clay 
That lives and feels and suffers and is damned. 
Why hast thou made me thus % why am I powerless 
For any good ? why dost thou grudge me weal 1 
Why was I born the offspring of thy wrath, 
Deformed ere formed 1 what had I done to thee 7 
Wilt thou not answer % nay, thou smil'st in scorn ; 
What unto thee are tears and breaking hearts 
But painted passions of a puppet-play 
Wherewith thine endless leisure is beguiled ! 
I take my plea from thine unrighteous bar 
To Truth, who lies in some foul cell of thine 
Weeping immortal tears. 

Ay, thou canst loose Orion's golden bands. 
Or yoke Behemoth ; but, for all thy godhead. 
Thou canst not quell my hate ! Ay, hear me, Thunderer ! 
In mine unshaken soul I too am god, 
Girt with an army of swift silent thoughts 



Act I., Scene I.] ERNEST. 19 

Invincible by any arts of thine 

As yonder clouds, that fly before the sunbeams 

But to return. Know then that I renounce thee. 

Thou thing of draflf ! how like another Nero 

Thou slumberest on thy throne, while seraphim 

Drown with the tinkling of their courtly viols 

The most unmannerly and discordant groans 

That mankind utters. No mere private curses 

I cast upon thee thus 5 my name is Legion ; 

I am the tribune of humanity, 

Ay, of the whole creation, bird and brute ! 

I call to witness every mortal thing 

That owes thee life and death, labor and sorrow, 

And cry, like old Prometheus from his crag, 

" air of heaven, swift wings of sweeping wind, 

River-springs, dimpled laugh innumerable 

Of ocean ripples, thou all-mother earth. 

And thou bright orb of sun that seest all. 

Behold what G^pd inflicts upon a god !" 

Enter Fisherman. 
— Saint Peter himself, by all that's apostolic I and trying to 
earn an honest penny, as I live ! can anything be more miracu- 
lous ? Hail, holy fisher of souls ! 

Fisherman. No soles in these waters, sir ; mackerel some- 
tunes, and congers, plenty of congers — but no soles. Good 
night, sir ! 

Ernest. Why so fast 1 cannot you stay and have a quiet 
chat with a friend ? Come now, I have some good tobacco 
about me — will that tempt you to remain 7 

Fisher. Well, sir, my day's work is done, and I was a going 
home to my missis. But, seeing you're so sociable, I don't 
mind if I do stay a little while. 



20 COTHUBNUS AND LYRE. 

Ernest. It's a bargain — my tobacco for your society — 
that's what I call quid pro quo. I always carry tobacco with 
me, for that is the only bait you west-country people will nib- 
ble at. "Well, how does the world use you % 

Fisher. Ah, sir, these be hard times for the poor man. 
Toiling and moiling rathe and late, sweating and sleeping, 
sleeping and sweating from year's end to year's end, like the 
turning of a cart-wheel in a ma'sh road, that's all we can trust 
to ; and as for laying a penny by, 'tis harder than for a man 
to fill these here drag-nets with sea-water. You gentlemen as 
never know what 'tis to want for a meal, you mid think that 
our troubles be mere fleabites — but a thousand fleabites, fresh- 
made every day and all day long, give a deal of itching, they 
do. But what should you know o' poor volk's ailments 1 as 
my missis says, no one but yourself can tell which eye the 
soap's in. 

Ernest. True, friend; but you seem to relish your pipe in 
spite of the times. 

Fisher. That I do, sir, and thank you for that same. A 
pipe and a mug is the only two pleasures left for us common 
men. In my young days there used to be fairs once a year in 
half the parishes round here ; and what with club-walking 
every Whit-Monday, and rounders on Good Friday, and har- 
vest-home-tide, and apple-christening-time, and gooding-day, 
and kissing-bush-time, and what not, there was many a bit of 
play in the year's round ; but nowadays there's no feasting 
nor merry-making to be had except at the Methodist tea- 
meetings, and they, you know, sir, beyn't o' no count along- 
side a good fire in a clean tap, and four or five butties to 
smoke or play all-fours with. 

Ernest. Yes, yes, the age of holidays has receded; the 
\ ^rld frrows avaricious in its old age, and grudges itself every 



Act I., Scene I.] ERNEST. 21 

hour that adds do money to its hoard. Prophesy again, my 
good Jeremiah. 

Fisher. John Rawlings, sir, if you please. Well, to go on 
with my tale, in old Squire Fortescue's days there used to be 
the poaching to keep us gay : many and many's the time I've 
stood up to my waist in water half the night a trout-fishing, 
or scampered a mile or two through the thick brush with a 
gamekeeper at my heels, when perhaps I'd been caught a-set- 
ting of a gin or a-pocketing a few pheasants' eggs by moon- 
light. Ah ! that was sport if you like ! But them days is 
gone by ; the young squire he don't preserve his game, and 
lets his tenants fish and shoot wherever they list ; and that 
puts an end to another o' the poor's pleasures. 

Ernest. Why, surely the trout bite as well and the pheas- 
ants' eggs taste as sweet as they did in the old squire's time 1 

Fisher. Surely they do, sir; but what sport is it to catch 
a paltry trout or two or a red-legged hare when every Tom, 
D-ick and Harry has a right to do the same 1 The danger is 
the life of the whole game; when that's out the thing's as flat 
ais hunting blackberries. 

Ernest. Gad ! you're a strange fellow! you seem to take it 
ill that you can't become a running target for the keepers ! 

Fisher. It's not that, sir ; but when I see a young gentle- 
man like Mr. Ernest Fortescue flinging his preserves to his 
farmers and his ploughmen, I doubt he's found some sport as 
is more in fashion or as pleases him better. No man's such a 
fool as to sell something for nothing. 

Ernest. You are severe on this Mr. Fortescue ; but they 
tell me he is not unjust to his tenantry. 

Fisher. No, I'll say that ; he's a good landlord and a good 
master ; but I count he makes it pay ; if he don't get it out 
of our bellies, he takes it off of our backs. I've not seen him 



22 coTnuBNUS and lyre. 

this many a year ; but they tell me he makes friends with all 
his work-folk, and talks to 'em as if they was his equals. 
Now that's not natural, to my thinking ; what fellowship is 
there between a squire and a hedger and ditcher % no, no, if 
he's feeding us so sweet and fat, it's because we shall yield 
him a bigger flitch that way. 

Ernest. The truth is, you are too proud to admit him into 
your order ; you plebeians are the true aristocrats, after all. 

Fisher. Proud, sir 1 no, my dear man, I'm past all that ! 
Since the day they took my poor boy to Dartmoor prison, five 
year ago, for killing a man when he was crazy with drink, I've 
not had a mote o' pride left. Proud % what call have we poor 
folk to be proud 1 our wives are slatterns, and our sons are 
drunkards ; and even our grey hairs are a shame«.to us, for 
they be the whips that drive us to the poorhouse. 

Ernest. Give me your hand, friend ! you have the true 
ring. And now, pray do me the honor of accepting this trifle 
to buy tobacco for your unhappy son. 

Fisher. God bless you, sir ! 'tis long since I've seen so 
muicli gold at once. Whose health shall I drink for this, sir % 

Ernest. I am Ernest Fortescue, friend, at your service. — 

Hush ! don't begin to revoke and spoil a good game ! There 

— good-night to you ! 

Fisher. Good-night, and thank you kindly, sir ! 

{Exit.) 
Ernest. How am I better than this raving sot 

That slays his comrade in a pothouse brawl 

And pines in jail for't 1 What a slave am I, 

Who, dandled on the lap of Earth and Time, 

And dowered with Fortune's favors, land, love, lore. 

Lack yet enough of common manliness 

To bridle a more murderous appetite 

Than that which gripes the spare and scrannel guts 



Act I., Scene I. ERNEST. 23 

Of yon poor maudlin ! Hear me swear, Earth ! 

I plight the honor of a Fortescue, 

The holy troth and loyalty of a lover. 

That if I cannot rid me speedily 

Of this foul poison, my accursed body 

Shall never soil the Parian purity 

Of yon sweet maid ; but, like a leprous man, 

I will betake me to some friendly desert 

And die the Roman death ! So help me heaven ! 

I hear your hoarse applause, ye myriad waves. 

And I shall earn it ! 

Enter Eva. 

Eva. Who is here 1 what, Ernest % 

Spouting heroics to a school of oysters 7 

A goodly occupation ! 
Ernest. My own Eva ! 

pardon me, thou sweet and gracious presence. 
That for a single moment I have suffered 

Thy holy fire to fade and flicker low 

Within the temple of my memory ! 
Eva. Still in the shadows, friend % your clouded face 

Is like a dial whose gloom invincible 

Dares the meridian's darts. Why is it sol J 

Will you not tell me 1 
Ernest. Sweet, this transient gloom 

Is but the dusk of an extinguished night. 

My sadness has a cause — ^but my hope is 

That you may never learn it — for to you 

1 look for light, deliverance, golden days. 
Eva. How can I heal, not knowing your disease ? 
Ernest. Needless to tell the sun " Shine here and here ! '* 



24 COTHURNUS AND LYRE. 

Continue but to be ! thine influence heals ; 

The lucid skies go with thee, and the sunshine 

Streams round thy forehead ever ; dawn and day- 
Follow thy feet ; the stars are in thy heir ; 

The rainbow is thy tire, and under thee 

Sail the white clouds ; and thine auroral presence 

Suffuses with a rosy light and heat 

The kindling air, 
Eva. Fie! what a rhapsody! 

You do not love me — this is but a trick 

To put me off with words. 
Ernest. Ah, spare me, sweet ! 

Bid me impale myself, and I shall do 't ; 

Bid me turn back the full Niagara's flood. 

Or stuff the fiery throat of old Vesuvius 

With his own spume, and I shall undertake it ; 

But what you ask is harder and more sharp 

Than all of these. 
Eva. Well ! come your ways with me ; 

I have a song to teach you. 
Ernest. Could you teach 

My tongue the tithe of those melodious numbers 

My heart has learnt of you, you were a greater 

Than Orpheus or Cecilia. Come then, sweet ! 

{Exeunt.) 

SCENE 11.— Libra7'y in Fortescue's house, the windows of which open 
upon a lawn I time, night. Enter Ernest. 

Ernest. The stars are out — the sky is white with stars ; 
A dark-blue sky like Mediterranean deeps. 
Without an isle of cloud. The most high gods 
Who hold a solemn revelry to-night. 



Act I., Scene II.] ERNEST. 25 

Have scattered constellations thick as daisies 

About the sapphire floor whereon they move 

To music hke tall ships. This is my hour 

To keep an assignation with the stars. 

{Steps upon the balcony.) 

IIow vast a wilderness of golden vines 

Grows rank in yonder heavens ! the Galaxy 

Waves all her fiery forests, where the moon 

Is wont to wander like a milk-white fawn ; 

Clusters of starry fruit, roses of light. 

Bloom upon unseen houghs ambrosial ; 

And o'er Elysian fields the planets pass. 

Bright as the ancient gods whose names they bear. 
—Which now shall I of these resplendent ones 

Choose for the ruler of my horoscope 1 

Not thee, thou ruddy Mars ; although I love 
The strain of sinews in tlie bloodless jousts 
Of high debate and oratoric war. 
And that divine insanity which burns 
With holy fire the mockeries and wrongs 
That gnaw the world's heart ; yet I choose not thee. 

Jove, thou art lordly ; I too have aspired. 
Ay, to the highest and the noblest things. 
Than which a hair-breadth less is infamy 
To eager souls ; I love the splendid East, 
Wherein the mountains thrust a fiery finger ; 
Fain would I set my shoulder to the world 
And heave it heavenward— seize the brazen lightnino- 
And climb its naked edge to the welkin's belfry. 
Spurning the stars— yet none the less for thee 
My hands are empty and my altars cold. 

maddening moon, I miss thy beams to-night : 



26 COTHUJiNUS AND LYRE. 

Enchanted seas antipodal pursue 
Thy white and cruel feet ; for me, I shudder 
At thy sardonic lights and awful shades. 
Thy cold embraces and thy deadly loves. 
Thy sterile coinage of illusive silver. 
Mirage of limpid springs on arid sands. 
And all thy meretricious comeliness. 
So be it ever ! and I choose not thee. 

flower-fair and fruitful of delight, 
Venus, the well-desired of gods and men ! 
I hail thee mistress ; for thou art not she 
That lapped her milk-soft limbs in Paphian foam. 
Flushing the ripples with her rosiness ; 
Nor she that let her falling tresses play 
— Like the soft touch of Zephyr's flowery fingers 
Fragrant of honey — on the sleeping face 
Of young Adonis; no such wanton thou: 
Thou art Urania, undefiled as light ; 
To thee I lift a supplicating hand. 

Thou therefore bless thy votary ! let no storms 
Make shipwreck of my love ; let thy chaste beams 
Lead me from this wild cauldron Fury-stirred 
Wherein I whirl, and bring mine argosy 
Safe among easy winds and quiet seas ; 
Let every maid and mother wear for me 
By virtue of her dower of womanhood 
The girdle of thy perfect loveliness ; 
And shorten thou the hours, Queen of Love, 
Till as a happy bridegroom I shall hold 
My Eva's hand and lead her gracious form 
To hearth and threshold, while the nuptial nuts 
Are scattered, and the nuptial torches wave; 



Act I., Scene II.] ERNEST. 27 

So shall thine altar smoke with scented fires. 

And golden doves shall draw thine ivory car. 

And I will make thee hymns, whose melodies 

Maidens may murmur to the breeze that haunts 

Italian vines or India's plumy palms, 

Ruffles the green magnolias, or makes rock 

The solemn spires of old Yosemite ! 

Farewell! farewell! 

{Re-entering his room, Ms eyes rest vpon a pliial containing a solution of 
opium.) 

Get thee behind me, Satan ! 

I tremble like a bird before the snake 

To see yon cursed phial. coward ! coward I 

I Avill not look upon it. Can it be 

That none of all the thoughts that prick men's natures— 

Not the strict mandates of imperious reason, 

Nor sense of shame, nor consciousness of manhood. 

Nor pride of race, nor memory of my love. 

Can whip me out of this effeminate mood 1— 

-— Methinks I smell it I roses of Arabia 

Are not so sweet ! God ! what a fermentation 

Hisses within me— I am all a- thaw 

A sip, a thimbleful could do no harm— 

{Beaches towards the phial.) 
Halt, fool, and hold your suicidal hand ! 
Remember her you love, remember— Tush ! 
This is the very parrot's paternoster ; ~" 

My thoughts are mutineers, they will not follow 
Where I command. What ! I will be obeyed ! 
Attention ! will you sell your plighted bride, 
Your unbegotten children, whose mute hands 
Reach out of Chaos, pleading 1 Count your gains 



28 COTIIUBNTJS AND LYEE. 

To-morrow — reckon up the brief bright moments 
Of your fool's-paradise — appraise their bhss ; 
Then write Per Contra ; loss of hving sap 
So much ; so long a spell of shivering palsy ; 
Despair and Disillusion thundering " Death ! " 
And that unquiet phantom of Kemorse 
Proffering her knife. I am to-morrow's conscience ; 
Choose whether you will hear me now ! to-morrow — 
— The devil take your sermons ! igive it me ! 
and raises the 2Mal, then pauses suddenly and hurls it against the 
wall.) 

fool ! there lies my sole and perfect pleasure 
Wasted like water ! Curse your violent fist ! 

1 am faint with craving. 
{Raises the fragments of the bottle.) 
Here is yet some nectar, 

I thank the gods ! 

{Drinks.) 

Now am I born anew ! 
Now everything to my enlightened eyes 
Grows fairer, larger ; now am I exalted 
To the heaven of heavens. A grateful indolence 
Slips o'er me like a garment of smooth silk. 
My blood is all aglow, as though I came 

Fresh from the bath. 

{Sinks upon a sofa.) 

Hark, hark ! a rolling music 
Like tread of thunder-clouds in ordered march 
Shaking the raindrops as a peal of bells 
From their full breasts ! 

splendors ! 
{Falls into a stupor. Curtain.) 



Act n., Scene I.] EENEST. 29 

* . ACT II. 

SCENE 1.— Garden before CKKRoiA^ahouse. JEVi^er Ernest, 

Eknest. Now, wliile the iron of my remorse is hot, 
I'll strike, and make the best amends I may. 
Amends 1 that's hopeless ; for the links of air 
That bind my better genias to my soul 
Cannot be soldered ; one by one they part, 
And, like the thistle-down, he soars at last. 
While this mibeauteous and deflowered spirit 
Rots in sterility. Hither she comes. 
Warbling the while, as I were Cynthius 
And she the bird of morning ; ah, poor soul ! 
She twitters to the torch that fires her nest, 
And deems it is the dawn, 
Eva {singing as she enters). 

Come, let us laugh, ha ! ha ! for Sorrow 
Sups with our friends across the way ; 

The rogue may dine with us to-morrow, 
So let us laugh, ha ! ha ! to-day. 

— Ernest ! what ails you 1 

Nay, do not turn aside — are you afraid 

Of your best friends 1 So, let me hold your hand ; 

What is it, then 1 
Ernest. Forbear to touch me, sweet ! 

I am the meanest and the loathliest creature 

That crawls and slimes the world. 
Eva. I hold not so ; 

I would not change a feature of your face. 



30 COTHURNUS AND LYRE. 

An impulse of your heart, had I the making 
Of seraphim. 

Ernest. Ay, seraphs of the dunghill ; 

Buzzards, and vultures, and the choir obscene 
That gleans behind the daintier sons of the sty. 
Praising the Lord for offal ! Mark, I pray you ; 
The hog that finds a jewel in his trough 
Snuffs it and goes his way ; but I, more gross. 
Have gorged the fairest gem in all the world 
As it were clay. 0, I could curse the hour 
When, like the snake of Eden breathing guile, 
I wooed and won you — 'twas a dastard's act ! 
'Twas an unmanly and a treacherous blow 
I dealt you then ! 

Eva. If that were treachery, 

May heaven preserve me from the conjurations 
Of Truth and Faith ! would God that all my sex 
Mothered such dastards ! 

Eenest. Bear with me a little. 

When first I saw you, and your loveliness 
Moved me to win you, I had been for years 
The victim of a vile debauchery — 
I was an opium-eater, and confirmed 
In that bad course — as to the how and why 
It matters not ; I offer no excuse ; — 
The desperation of a sleepless man 
Who nightly tosses on a mountainous couch 
Lacks your fine pulpit sense of right and wrong :- 
But let that pass ; this vice was mine, I say. 
And to such mastery and o'ertopping pitch 
It mounted soon, that when I would recall it 
And breed it to my hand, the task was harder 



Act n., Scene I.] EBNEST. 31 

Than for the tender and unbearded wheat 

To raise the millstone. Many and many a time. 

For weeks and months together, I regained 

My freedom and my hope, although the cravings 

Of morbid appetite would rend and shake me 

As with an epilepsy ; but at last, 

Inevitable as death, returning weakness 

Renewed my fetters. Yet I sprung and struggled' 

Like a strong salmon with the iron hook 

Fast in his jaws, until at last my force 

Failed, and I drifted with my destiny 

Still as despair— indiflferent as a stone 

That cares not at what mark the slinger sling him, 

— Or like some wanderer ou a mountain moor, 

Huddled and stumbling in funereal snows, 

Who feels the sweetness of a deadly slumber 

Steal over him, and unresisting dies — 

I lived and waited. 

But before that day 
I had besought Almighty God with tears 
(Heaven save the mark !) — and that at no set season, 
But without ceasing, morningtide and midnight, 
Falling upon my knees and making moan, 
" God ! God ! God ! " I cried—" deliver me 
" Out of this pit of hell ! " 

But there was nothing ; 
Baal and Jehovah slept on easy pillows 
Drowsy with good fat sinecures, and flushed 
With fine old nectar. Take away your God ! 
Set him in some dark corner of the world 
Like a child's broken doll ! the faith is gone 
Wherewith I clothed yon soulless lineaments 



32 COTHURNUS AND LYRE. 

In rosy light and majesty serene ; 
My childish days are over. 

Then, like the blessed sun of heaven, your face 
Dawned out upon me, and my withered heart 
Flamed forth in blossom. Ah, forgive me, dear. 
If in the joyous atmosphere of love 
That smote me like a breeze, I did forget 
My menial oflS.ce and my leprosy, 
And dared to hang my servile ball and chain 
Upon the rosy heels of heaven-born Iris. 
By God, it was a despicable thing 
That I, the paramour of Shame and Madness, 
And plighted like a bridegroom o'er and o'er 
To death and all the devils in perdition. 
Should ask of you, the lily of all virgins. 
To make a third in bed with Nemesis 
And sit beside the Furies at my board ! 
I tell you, Eva, I could tear my heart 
Forth with these fingers for the shame of it ! 
See, you are free — I came to tell you this — 
I loose my hold of you henceforth, my darling ! 
Curse me and go your way ! 
Eva. Stay then, and hear 

The curses I shall heap upon your head ! 
I love you, dear, I love you ; would to God 
That I could make you happy with a wish — 
Ay, with a deed, though it were desperate 
As that old Roman's, v/ho to save the State 
Plunged with his horse into the sheer abyss 
And vowed his foemen to the gods of hell ; 
This ring upon my finger is to me 
As vital as the girdling atmosphere 



Act II., Scene I.l ERNEST. 3; 

That marries earth and heaven — it holds my heart — 

I cannot yield it upon such a cause. 

I will not let you go ; your Nemesis, 

Your furies and your fiends, why let them come ! 

They shall not drag you from these arms of mine ; 

I know my rights — I am your bride affianced — 

And unto what far corner of the world 

The fates may drive you — to the dome of heaven 

Or to the pit of hell — my place is there. 

Have I not said enough 7 What, will you force me 

To seal my maledictions with a kiss % 

Ah, traitor ! 
Ernest. Nestle here, sweet bird of peace ! 

And God forbid that I should fling thee forth 

On the wide waste, if thou canst make thy home 

Upon so bare a bough ! 

Ah Eva, sweet one, you reverse the legend ; 

You bring me laurels from the tree of life 

And lay their healing fragrance on my breast. 

Not without sweeter kisses. But consider ; 

1 am pure poison ; Avould you taint your blood 

With foul disease % 
Eva. You are a royal poison ; ' 

The diamond-dust that Eastern princes use 

Is not so rich ; the daintiest Cleopatra 

Would ask no better. Do you want an answer 7 

I love you ! 
Erxest. Then for the love of heaven, ray girl, reproach me ! 

And cease to consecrate my infamy 

With the regard of your compassionate eyes; 
For in the warmth of your most tender looks 
I, like the shrinking reptile that I am, 



34 COTEUBNUS AND LYME. 

Expire in agony. What, more caresses 1 
My love, you are so pitiful to vices 
That whitest virtues will debauch themselves 
To win a tear from you. 

Eva. Not so, my Ernest; 

Pity is piety ; I serve the gods 
Best when I kiss your eyes. But pardon me ; 
You know the curious nature of a woman ; 
You must have had strange visions in your time — 
Dream them aloud for me. 

Ernest. Strange dreams, indeed ; 

Diverse as Nature, yet alike in this — 
Scarce one of them but thrilled in all its parts 
With colors of unearthly loveliness 
But all disordered — suns of silver whiteness 
Beamed out of rosy skies on golden grass. 
And leaf and cloud and water changed their hues 
Like the chameleon. I remember once 
I dreamed that they had flung me violently 
Down a deep well, whose wide circumference 
— Staired like a Roman circus, tier on tier — 
Sloped inwards like a cone ; the place was blacker 
Than midnight in a mine, and as I tumbled, 
A noise of horrible screams and bestial bowlings 
Increased each moment ; down and ever downward 
I toppled headlong, sheer, and all the while 
A mountainous and ever-growing weight 
Oppressed me like a nightmare ; 1 did leave 
An echo like a thunder — yet I heard 
Some fearful indescribable thing behind me 
Swooping and roaring — ah ! I felt its breath 
And horrid hair brushing my back !— but at last. 



Act II., Scene I. EBNEST. 35 

Stunned by the swift accelerating motion, 

Stifled and scorched and crushed, I slept like death. 

Another night methought I was a star ; 
Not such an orb as our astronomy 
Describes — a mightier sun — but a quaint figure 
Like the rude sign upon an antique tavern. 
Out of my body vast and burning beams 
Were thrust like wedges ; like a wheel I whirled 
Cogged with a thousand rays, and at the nave 
I bore a naked eye, sans lids or lashes, 
Aching for sleep that never might return. 
All through the day intolerable heat 
Consumed me, and I cursed the sun whose beams 
Pierced me at every pore like burning lances ; 
At night I shivered with intensest cold. 
And longed for heat, even from the hottest furnace 
In purgatory. 
Eva. This is horrible ; 

You make me shudder to the finger-tips ; 

Go on, go on ! 
Ernest. Another time I dreamed 

That I was dead and fastened in my bier, 
But with the sense of hearing and of touch 
Perfect about me, and a power of vision 
That pierced all barriers ; I could hear the choir 
Chanting a requiem o'er me, and the ropes 
Creak, and then, plash ! I slid into the sea: 
And as I sank, fainter and ever fainter 
The voices grew, and wash — wash — wash the sea 
Did surge and seethe and gurgle at mine ear 
With a monotony of mingling sounds 
So like articulate speech, that I was fain 



36 COTHURNUS AND LYRE. 

To disentangle and repeat their babblings 
As children would ; and I could see and feel 
The worms at Avork within me, as they trailed 
Their lean and starveling bodies to and fro. 
Some gnawing at my heart, and some my brain. 
And some were snapping with their tiny teeth 
My ligaments and sinews ; one old sire 
Was fain to suck my marrow, for his gums 
Were void of teeth, save such as here and there 
Had turned to fossils — the poor creature mumbled 
And harrowed me, so that I shook with laughter. 
And as I laughed, a nest of sleeping maggots 
Rolled from their bed within my jaws, and writhed- 
— Will that suffice 1 

Eva. That is enough of horror ; 

But was it always thus 1 were there no spots 
Of summer in your dreams 1 this dreadful desert 
Could have no charms, methinks. 

Ernest. My earlier visions 

Were beautiful ; and sometimes even yet 
I snatch a glimpse of utter loveliness. 
In such a vision once I seemed to sail 
Upon a sunbeam from the central sea 
That flooded the great orb with living light 
A.nd glory most intense, ineffable ; 
Along a narrowing iridescent stream 
Of splendid sunshine, that was all alive 
And sensitive with beauty, falling oft 
In cataracts fragrant with a flowery foam, 
I floated, cleaving with my golden prow 
The blue cool ether, till at last I moored 
Under green grass among white lily-heads. 



Act II., Scene I.] EENEST. 37 

— These are the luxuries of the devil's palace, 
That cost men's liberties. 

Eva. Did you not say 

That for a time you earned your liberty 
Through pains and patience 1 

Ernest, When I saw you first. 

So strong a strain of courage your sweet hands 
Grafted upon me, that for six long months 
No single drop of poison passed my lips. 
With what a face could I, a Fortescue, 
Have dared to win your heart and ask your hand. 
Had I been reeking from a swinish bed % 
No ! though the sharks of hell were in my wake, 
I was not carrion yet ! True, I did woo you ; 
But for the moment I was pure and free. 
And by your grace I deemed I should abide so : 
Wherein I erred most damnably it seems. 

Eva. But, good my friend, wliat you have done aforetime 
You can do yet, and under happier omens. 
For I shall reinforce you with my heart. 
And side by side we'll break another lance 
With this old beldame Fortune. Shake the dice ! 
Pursue your luck, and it will turn at last ! 
A fig for Destiny ! a woman's wits 
Will find a way to blunt her fatal shears ; 
And you and I, my friend, will shock the stars. 
Though they should hurl from all the heights of heaven 
Their bolts upon us, and by fell conjunctions 
Think to immesh us. Listen, my good comrade ! 
We'll make a new campaign for half a year j 
I put my faith in you ; you will not fail me : 
And at the end of six brief glorious months 



38 COTHUENUS AND LYRE. 

We'll have the bells rung for a victory 

And for a wedding, if it like you so. 

And, once well married, I defy your sirens 

To win you back with all their witcheries. 

What say you, love 1 
Ernest. What should I say, sweetheart 1 

What says the convict to a long reprieve 1 

I came for judgment, hoping nothing else 

Than the infernal horrors for my portion, 

And you have given me Paradise. 

light, sweet hght and air, and high blue heavens. 

Once more I greet jou ! 
Eva. Captain, I am come 

To join my colors ; give the Avord ! 
Ernest. What, 1 1 

The vanquished of a hundred fights % not so ! 

You shall command. 
Eva. So be it. Forward ! March ! 

{Exeimt.) 

SCENE 11.— The same. Enter John, with a watering-pot. To Mm 
enter Maky, tvith a coverlet which she is repairing. 

Mary (sings). Charlie is my darling — 

John, Polly ! 

Mary [sings). My darling, my darling — 

John. Mary ! 

Mary (sings). Charlie is my darling — 

John. Miss Mary ! 

Mary (sings). The young ChefFonier. 

John (laughs). The young Chefibnier ! Ho ! ho ! ho \ What 
hignorance ! ChefFonier ! He ! he ! he ! 

Mary. Well, what's wrong about that, Jack 1 That's the 
way I learnt it. 



Act II., Scene II.] ERNEST. 39 

John {wliistles). Who !-who !-wh6 !-who !-wh6 !-wlio ! 
—Ha! ha! ha! Cheffonier! 

Mary. John, tell me quick, what is it 1 
John {wMstles). Who-who !-who ; who-who !-who- 
Ho ! ho ! ho 1 Cheffonier ! 

Mary. Mr. John, please tell me !-Don't stand there whist- 
ling like a tureen or a French bull, you great lout ! 

John. You mean to say like a tit-o-reen or a bullfrench,^' 
Polly. You townsfolk have such cockney names for birds 
and things ; I wonder they don't teach you better. 

Mary. Never mind me— you have no call to speak about 
other people, I'm sure. When you are hexcited you talk like 
a clodhopper yourself, and forget all your fine words. And 
you make big blunders too ; I heard you only last night speak- 
ing of cows « emasculating " the cud, when you should have 
said " domesticating " it. So there now ! 

John. Talking of cows, I heard tell of a town girl that wanted 
to go a-milking, only the cow as she went to milk wasn't a cow 
at all— though we had a prime cut of beef oflf the same hani- 
mal at ChrisLas. Who !-who !-wh6 1-who !-wh6 !-who 1 
—He ! he ! he ! Cheffonier ! 

Mary. Plague take the cow ! John, tell me now, please, or 
I'll never look at you again. 

John. What you ought for to have sung is this: {sings) 
Charlie is my darling, 
The young Chevelure ! 
Mary. The young Chevelure ! What does it mean. Jack'? 
John. Why the young hair to the throne, to be sure. We 
botanists, we knows all these Latin words— 'tis our trade to 
know 'em. All the lea^'ned professions require a knowledge 
of Latin ; it keeps out the quacks and the vulgar cads. But 
if you be so beastly ignorant, I can't keep company with you 



40 COTMUItNUS AND LYItE. 

any longer, Mary. I can't marry beneath my rank in life, you 
know, poor Poll. 

Mary. Who Avants to keep company with you, I should like 
to know 7 I'd have you to understand that your betters have 
proposed for my 'and. 

John. Who % Tom Lush ? Sho ! he was too drunk to know 
what he was about. He'd just as s-oon propose to me when 
he's in liquor as he would to you. 

Mary. Mr. Lush is always the gentleman, drunk or sober. 
He falls into the gutter with as much ceremony as if he was 
backing out of the queen's presence ; he always apologises to 
the lamp-post for taking the liberty of leaning against it, and 
he says " God bless me " every time he 'iccups. He has more 
manners when he's drunk than you have when you're sober, 
and more taste too. 

John. Don't be mad now. Poll ! pretty Poll ! 

Mary. I won't be called pretty Poll, sir ! I'd have you to 
know as I'm not a parrot ! Don't speak to me, sir ! 

John {aside). Now I've offended her. I'm a fool ! I really 
must learn to prune my luxuriant wit ; 'tis a great i)iece of 
self-denial, but one must humor the women. Upon my soul, 
she's a pretty creature ! — Look at her fut ! what a sweet little 
fut ! Ah, if I only had that little fut to repose in my bosom ! 
{Aloud) Mary, 'tis Lydcombe fair next Thursday. 

Mary. Well, what of that 7 

John. What shall I bring thee for a fairing 1 A little gold 
ring, eh, Mary 7 — ^Ah now, Mary ! 

Mary. Don't be silly, my dear. 

John. Sweet creature, say that you will bloom in your 
John's greenhouse -^orever ! Say that you will be his pelar- 
gonium, his 

Mary. Never, sir! What do you take me for % Your pelar- 



Act II., Scene H.] EBNEST. 4X 

gonium, indeed ! No, sir ; if I change my condition, I shall 

change it in lawful wedlock ; I'll be no man's pelargonium, I ! 

John. You mistake me, my dear ! {Aside) I must reduce my 

language to her level, I see ; the poor thing has no culture. 

{Aloud) Again I hask, will you be my sweet pea, Polly 1 will 

you be my perennial rose, Maryl will you be my Glory de 

c 
John 1 will you — will you — will you marry me, Mary 1 

Mary. To be sure I will ; Avhy didn't you ask me before '? 

John. 0, hecstacy ! Embrace me, my hown ! 

{They fall into each other's arms — then recoil with a scream.) 

Mary. Ah ! you great awkward clown ! you have emptied 
your filthy watering-pot all over my new dress ! 

John. And you have stuck your infernal needle into the 
small of my back, you flighty thing you ! 

Mary. Serve you right, clumsy ! My dress is ruined — cost 
me sixpence-halfpenny a yard only last week. Do you suppose 
the sprigs on a printed calico want watering, eh '? 

John. These, my dear, are some of the trials of love. Don't 
let a little water put you out, Molly ! Why, I would go 
through fire and water for you. 

Mary. You mean to say through gin and water, I suppose. 
— Quick, John ! get behind the shrubbery ! here's Mr. Stuckey 
and Miss Ada coming ! And mind you don't squeeze me, do 

you hear 7 

{They hide themselves.) 

Enter Owen and Ada, 

Owen. Ah, here is our seat. Now for a little quiet conver- 
sation. 

Ada. Oh, my dear sir, I am sick of quiet conversation ; do 
stand on one leg, or play the jew's-harp, or turn a somersault, 
just to oblige me ! And if you could dance a hornpipe or two, 
I should take it as a favor. 



42 C'OTJIUJiNUS AND LYME. 

Owen. My dear lady ! 

Ada. Aud it would relieve me greatly if you could direct 
your attention to some other object in the landscape. It is 
very foolish of me, I know, hut whenever you regard me with 
that long keen gaze I always fancy you are going to dissect 
me. 

Owen. Certainly, certainly ! 
{Looks down on the ground / catches sight of Ada's foot, and uncon- 
sciously lets his erje travel up to her face.) 

Ada. For heaven's sake, spare me ! I can feel your glance 
creeping over me like a leech — there, don't be amgry — stealing 
over me like a sunbeam, I will say. Does that console you *? 

Owen. Entirely, entirely. {Aside) How the devil am I to be- 
gin this operation 1 I wish to heaven I could chloroform her ! 
Well, now or never. {Aloud) A-a-ah ! Miss Ada ! 

Ada. Yes ! 

Owen. Miss Carroll ! — a-a-ah ! 

Ada. What is it, sir 1 

Owen. Ah — Madam ! — a-ah ! 

Ada. Dear me, Mr, Stuckey, you are not very brilliant this 
morning. Really, I would almost as soon talk to the calcu- 
lating machine. 

Owen. Hem ! yes. Now about that calculating machine, 
do you know, Babbage never 

Ada. sir, I hope Mr. Babbage is in heaven ! 

Owen. Why yes, I hope so, I am sure. 

Ada. But I fear not. Woe unto them by whom offences 
come, you know ; and I am sure Mr. Babbage and his machine 
must have made many a good man swear, 

Owen, Eh ? ah, yes ! I beg your pardon ; what was I say- 
ing 1 

Ada. You had got as far as Madam. 



Act IL, Scene II.] ERNEST. 43 

Owen (aside). Deuce take it ! only just in Genesis ! (Aloud) 
I was about to say, my dear Miss Ada, that there are moments 
in hfe-rthere are moments in life — there are, I may say, mo- 
mentous moments in life 

Ada. Yes, indeed ! I have often noticed it. I wish with all 
my heart we could consume our moments wholesale like 
cheesemites, and swallow a century at a mouthful. This mo- 
mentary progress is so tedious ! 

Owen. Heavens ! what a Saturnian appetite ! — Talking of 
Saturn, do you know I have a private theory of my own with 
regard to his rings 

Ada. dear ! dear ! I wish to heaven that Saturn's rings 
were in every astronomer's nose ! Oh ! why was I born ? 

Owen (aside). Mehercle ! what a bog I'm in ! I must put 
on another mule. (Aloud) I was having a very pleasant con- 
versation with Miss Trevelyan this morning. Miss Ada, in 
which 

Ada. Indeed, sir ! I am not conscious of possessing any 
interest in your conversations with Miss Trevelyan. 

Owen (aside). Aha ! now she moves ! Whoop ! gee ! get 
up, Dobbin ! (Aloud) At any rate you have an interest in this 
particular conversation. Miss Ada, for we were talking of you. 

Ada. I feel flattered by Miss Trevelyan's condescension, I 
am sure. (Aside) Hateful thing ! 

Owen. You seem troubled. Miss Carroll : I shall be happy 
to prescribe for you if you are ill. 

Ada. Never better, I assure you. The only prescription I 
need is peace. 

Owen. Well, then, as I was just saying, we were speaking 
of you. May I not tell you what we said 1 

Ada. Not for the world, sir ! I have no desire to pry into 



44 COTHURNUS AND LYRE. 

the secrets of your freemasonry. There are mysteries that 
even a woman will respect, 

Owen. But there was one thing Eva Trevelyan said which 
I should really like 

Ada. My dear sir, I positively don't care a pin for anything 
that was said on either side. 

Owen. I perceive, madam, that my presence is disagreeable 
to you. I shall have the honor to hid you good-morning. 
{Aside) I must try the virtue of a little exodus upon her. 

Ada. Your courtesy, sir, anticipates my wishes. I was just 
about to request the favor of your absence. 

Owen. I take pleasure in obeying you, madam. 
{Bows, and quits her, hut conceals himself in a bower at a little distance.) 

Ada. Now he has gone away in a huff; and it was all my 
fault. dear ! what an impatient little minx I am ! how rude 
and ill-bred he must think me ! Oh, why didn't he stay ? 
couldn't he see I was only making believe 1 I wish to heaven 
he would only come back and be tiresome again ! I am dying 
to be bored to death — I positively languish for a lecture ; a 
little tedium now and then is so refreshing. Ah ! those dear 
delightful logarithms ! that fascinating anatomy ! that ravish- 
ing logic ! that enchanting X)olitical economy ! 0, come back, 
Owen, Owen, while I am in a melting mood ! come and riddle 
me with syllogisms, saturate me with syntax, pelt me to death 
with the differential calculus, carve me into conic sections like 
a rabbit, and bury me deep in the nebular theory ! Put me 
back into " a-b ab " and "I love, thou lovest." No, no! 
{weeps) he will never come back, and I shall never, never be 
worried again ! Dear old nuisance ! he is gone to be dull in 
the arms of another ! 

Owen {aside, emerging from the arhor). Aha ! victory ! at 
last ! I have subdued her by the desperation of my retreat ; 



AoT n., Scene n.] ERNEST. 45 

the determination I displayed in striking my tents has cowed 
her into a capitulation ! What I failed to accomplish by force 
of arms has been achieved by the resolution of these two legs ! 
Once more to the breach, my friends ! as the the sclioolmaster 
said when he called up the next class in flogging. {Advances 
softly to the hack 0/ Ada's chair, and clasps his hands over 
her eyes. In a gruff voice) Guess ! 

Ada. Is that you — Owen 1 

Owen. Yes — Ada. 

Ada. Come and tell me what Eva Trevelyan said, won't 
you 7 

Owen (^releasing her eyes and lending over her). She said 
that you loved me with all your heart, though you wouldn't 
own it for the world. Was that true, Ada 1 

Ada. You wouldn't have me say that Eva Trevelyan could 
be guilty of a falsehood ? 

Owen {aside). Thank heaven, we are in Revelations at last ! 
{Aloud) My dear girl ! {kissing her) Now at last I stand upon 
the asymptote of happiness, even if I am outside of the golden 
hyperbola itself. [Seating himself at her side.) 

Ada. you dear old goose ! must you make love out of the 
multiplication-table, and put up a compliment as you would a 
prescription 1 

Owen. You shall teach me better, my dear. But even now 
there is one cloud upon the horizon of my hopes. 

Ada. And what is that 1 

Owen. That I cannot marry you as soon as I would. For- 
tescue has to-day made a clean breast to Miss Trevelyan ; and 
she has put him upon his probation for six months, at the 
end of which she will marry him, if he is finally emancipated 
from his unfortunate habits. I saw him a few minutes since ; 
he is full of enthusiasm over the project, and bound to suc- 
ceed, if love and devotion can save him. But at such a crisis 



46 COTHUBNUS AND LYRE. 

he has need of all his friends ; enthusiasm is a good hammer, 
but a bad anvil : I feel that I 2an be of use to him in many- 
ways, and, come what may, I'll not marry until he is fairly out 
of the toils. 

Ada. And I love you all the better for it. But Owen, Owen, 
I have a bright idea! We will keep our engagement secret 
until the six months are over ; it will be so delightful to have 
papa lecturing me twenty times a day for being too familiar 
with you ! And you must keep up the joke ; remember you 
are engaged to me, and can take any liberties you please. 
Begin at once, sir, do you hear ! give me your arm — so — and 
bend your head a little more this way. Good ! now saunter 
slowly along with me — not so fast ! — and talk to me in a kind 
of animated murmur. Oh! this is charming ! 

{Exeunt Owen and Ada.) 
John and Mary issue from the shriibhery. 

Mary. John ! 

John. Well, my dear 1 

Mary. Tell me what Eva Trevelyan said, quick 1 and give 
me a kiss afterv/ards. 

John. She said you was fonder of tripe and onions than 
anything in the world, only you would never own to it. 

Mary. For shame, sir ! John, I think we might walk about 
a little, too, just to show that we're engaged. This old cover- 
let will do for a shawl {hanging it over her arm). There, I 
think my figure's as good as Miss Carroll's, any day of the week ; 
and I'm sure your legs are more genteel than Mr. Stuckey's. 
But you must have a cane — the spout of your watering-pot is 
just the thing — {pulling it out and, thrusting it into John's 
hand). Now come along ! 

Thexj toalTc fantastically to and fro, carrying the coverlet and tin spout : 
txirning suddenly, they meet Owen and Ada face to face. Ada and 
Mary scream and fall fainting / the men receive them in their arms. 
Curtain. 



Act III., Scene I.] ERNEST. 47 



ACT III. 

SCENE 1.— Garden before Carroll's house. Enter Ada, in bricleS' 
maid's costume, and carrying a hand-mirror. 

Ada. Only a week to the wedding ! heigho ! I wish it were 
my wedding instead of Eva Trevelyan's ! Ha ! ha I that's a 
true bridesmaid's wish ; for the sole office of a bridesmaid is 
to add a trimiiphant relish to the bride's breakfast — -Just as a 
boy in the first flush of trousers will surround himself with a 
chorus of younger boys in petticoats. Well, well, matrimony 
and breeches are both hollow and delusive joys, I fear. The 
boy changes his clothes but not his sex, just as we change our 
names but not our natures ; and sooner or later with both of 
us fate never fails to tug at the stoutest button, and care frets 
a hole in every pocket. But the parson's misfits pinch worse 
than the tailor's, and his customers are not allowed to change 
their bargains — more's the pity ! There ought to be a clause 
in the marriage license — " Satisfaction given, or the money re- 
turned." Trousers have many advantages, I see ; I pant to 
possess them. — But {gazing at her glass) why do I talk of 
trousers, when this dress fits me like my skin — and becomes 
me a great deal better, I am sure. This corsage is a miracle 
of imagination ; the skirt is an inspiration ; and what a tender 
melancholy displays itself in the bonnet ! 'Tis wonderful what 
modesty these long white veils lend a woman ! I feel posi- 
tively infuriated with modesty ; — it is oppressive, sufibcating. 
I vow I could almost find it in my heart to take Eva's place at 
the altar next week ; for Mr. Fortescue has grown perfectly 
charming since he gave up his odious habits — I really didn't 
think it was in him. But what would poor Owen sayl I 



48 COTIIUENUS AND LYRE. 

positively must tell papa of our engagement ; it's a shame to 
keep him in the dark any longer. There's no time like the 
present. Papa! papa! come quick, I have something to 
show you ! 

Carroll {loithin). Yes, yes, my dear, I am coming, I am 
coming ; yes, yes. 

Enter Carroll, iDith a newspaper. 

I am coming, my dear, {sits) I am coming, I am— God bless 
me ! the country is ruined, ruined, utterly ruined ! 

Ada. What, again, papa 1 'tis only a fortnight since the last 
time it was ruined. 

Car. Ruined, ruined, — ru — ! Ah, these are awful times 
we live in ! awful, truly awful ! Listen, my love ! {reads) 

" Spelter continues flat, at 2id a 2^d, and quotations have a 
downward tendency." 

Spelter flat again ! And look at linseed ! {reads) 

" Linseed is dull, with scarcely any demand, and prices are 
unchanged." 

There, what do you think of that ? And wheat cheaper than 
at any time since '52 ! — Oh, it is intolerable ! it must end in — 
As I said to little Tom Shaw, last autumn — prices were falling 
like the leaves — Tom, says I, Shaw, says I, mark my words, in 
less than ten centuries this country will be plunged into a state 
of universal — dear me, dear me, dear me ! 

Ada {aside). Heavens, will he never get his marketing done 7 
(Aloud) Papa, I want you to look at my bridesmaid's dress — 
isn't it sweet 1 

Car. Very sweet, my dear, very sweet, very — What, what 1 
{reads) 

" Crude turpentine remains quiet at 8/3 for yellow dip, 8/4 
for virgin." 

Sight and fourpcnce for virgin ! And yet Fortescue must 



Act III., Scene I.] EEKFEST. 4Q 

go and plunge headlong into matrimony in such, times as these ! 
I call it sheer madness 1 why it is flying in the very face of the 
quotations ! 

Ada. To he sure, papa ! he ought to enter a convent, and 
stay till you ai-e satisfied with the condition of things — which 
will never be {aside). But do look at my costume again, and 
tell me what you think of it. 

Car. One moment, my love I Come, that's something, at 
any rate — whiskey is better — you will be glad to hear that 
whiskey is better, my dear. And now what can we do for 
you 1 — oh, yes, your dress — very clean and handsome, I am 
sure — whiskey is better — but don't you think your jewelry is 
a little showy, my love 1 A young woman should have no or- 
naments but her eyes, you know — but your eyes never were 
anything to boast of, my poor child ! Ah 1 you never knew 
your grandmother Jochebed ! 

Ada {aside). Mercy on us ! what gossips men are I they 
have no head for affairs. {Aloud) Papa dear, I could easily 
change this into a bride's toilet. Just a little alteration in the 
train, and a yard or two more in the veil, and there you are. 
. Car. That reminds me, my dear, of a good thing of poor 
Tim Sheppard's. Tim's wife, you know, was a hideous old 
hag, painted up to the roots of her hair — she used to lay it on 
with a whitewash-brush, I think — and her arms were like two 
drumsticks cased in leather. Well, she had her portrait 
painted in evening-dress — quite a large area of exposure, don't 
you know? — and when the likeness came home, she wasn't 
satisfied, and wanted to return it. " Oh," says Tim — Tim was 
a good fellow, and always very full — {pauses.^ 
Ada. Very full, papa ! 
Car. Yes, yes, my dear — very full of good spirits, you know 



50 COTHUBYUS AND LYRE. 

— " Oh," says Tim, " lay it aside, lay it aside ; we can always " — 
{pauses.) 

Ada, Yes, papa. 

Car. What was I saying 1 — oh, yes, — {laugJis) " we can always 
Bell it to a public-house for the sign of the Plasterer's Arms.'' 
Ila ! ha ! ha ! " Oh," says Tim, " lay it aside, lay it aside ; we 
can always sell it to a public-house for the sign of the Plaster- 
er's Arms." 

Ada. Ha! ha! ha! exquisite! {Aside) This is martyrdom! 
I must give myself the coup de grace at once. {Aloud) Papa, 
what do you think 1 I have had an offer of marriage. 

Car. Have you indeed, my dear 7 I hope you accepted 
him, I hope you accepted him. Who was it, by-the-bye 1 

Ada. It was Mr. Owen Stuckey, papa, and I have accepted 
him, if you will only say yes. 

Car. Ha ! Mr. Stuckey ! indeed ! Mr. Owen Stuckey I to 
be sure I I noticed him kissing you the other day, but I didn't 
think — Well, well, well ! Mr. Owen Stuckey, is it 1 so, so } 
aha ! 

Ada. You seem surprised, papa ; don't you think Mr. 
Stuckey is a good match for me 7 He is very fond of me^ 
papa dear. 

Car. Why yes, I was a little surprised, I own ; Mr. Stuckey, 
you knoAv, is — {pauses) — such an as — (^jawscs.) 

Ada. Such an ass, papa ! what do ybu mean 1 I am sure 
Owen has remarkable abilities, and as for his < 

Car. You mistake me, my dear ; you decapitate my most 
innocent words with your interruptions. I was about to say 
that Mr. Stuckey is an astonishingly clever fellow — a little im- 
suited for you, don't you see ? You are furnished like your 
poor mother in the matter of brains — you have too many to lose, 



Act in., Scene I. EEIifEST. 51 

but not enough to keep. — Fine day, isn't it 1 crops want rain, 
though. 

Ada (aside). What a bear papa is ! and for my i)art, I am a 
perfect Grizzle ! {Aloud) But, papa, tell me, do you approve 

of Mr. Stuckey as a husband for me ] Do you think — that 

Car. Well, my dear, this is a matter which — {nods) — requires 
a great deal — {nods) — of de — liber — {falls asleep.) 

Ada. how provoking ! I believe he would fall asleep in 
the dentist's arms ! Papa ! papa ! No use ! sound as a dea- 
con. Papa ! papa ! papa ! Moral suasion won't do for him, 
I see ; I must convert him with an apostolic blow or two. 
{Shakes Mm hy the shoulders). My dearest papa, {shaking 
Mm) let me invite you {shaking him) to be good enough to pro- 
ceed {shaking him) with your entertaining remarks {shaking 
Mm). Ah, now he is convinced — but my arm will ache for a 
week. 

Car. {awaking). — ation, my love ; deliberation and reflec- 
tion. I reflected many a long day before I made your poor 
mother a Mrs. ; — I wish I had reflected longer ! But tell me, 
is your heart really set on this young man "? 

Ada. Yes, indeed, papa ; I am bound to have him. 
Car. Then I give my consent freely ; for if I don't, you'll 
contrive to do without it. Give a woman plenty of rope, I 
say ; she'll very soon come back and beg for the ciirb. 

Ada. You dear little papa! {kissing him) you are a very 
good soul, after all. 

Car. Well, well, my dear, we will go into the house and talk 
it over quietly. But I could wish — I could wish — I could 
wish — that ginger and molasses — 



Enter Ernest and Joseph. 
Joseph. So this is the cage that contains the httle love-bird 1 
Pretty enough, upon my soul. 



52 COTHURNUS AND LYEK 

Ernest. Yes, and this garden is Eden, defended only by 
laughing Cupids with quivers full of sunbeams. 

Jos, And a snug little homestead it is, for people who like 
innocence and simplicity. But who comes 1 this must cer- 
tainly be your she. 

Enter Eva. 

Ernest. My dear girl ! you come upon us as noiselessly as 
the moon. This is my cousin Joseph, Eva ; — Miss Trevelyan, 
Mr, Lorimer. 

Eva. "Welcome, sir, to our simple fields and folds ! You are 
from the city 1 

Jos. From the city, madam ; a wolf that has lost his way. 
But I could find it in my heart to pare my claws and profess 
the sheeps' religion, if all shepherdesses are like yourself. 
{Aside) She really is devilish pretty ! A cat may look at a 
king, they say — ^but a man inust look at a pretty girl. 

Eva. But a sincere convert, Mr. Lorimer, must renounce 
his good taste along with the other pomps and vanities. 

Ernest. 0, Lorimer is only in his part. They say he hunts 
the sex by hattue, and leaves a broken heart in every bush. 

Jos. Not at all ; I am the sex's victim ; the pangs of de- 
spised love are chronic with me, and all my respirations are 
sighs. {Aside) Modest, too ; I like that. A woman Tfho has 
lost her modesty is like a cat that has lost her sense of clean- 
liness ; with both of them it is but a step from the fireside to 
tbe gutter. I like to drink my wine from a clean glass, I con- 
fess. 

Ernest. Every man ought to marry, Lorimer ; for it is his 
duty to make at least one woman wretched, in revenge for 
having been brought into the world by a woman. This race 
of miserable sinners must be pro^^agated and preserved for the 
glory of God, my good sir ; would you thwart the divine pur- 



Act m., Scene I.l ERNEST. 53 

poses by permitting the euthanasia of humanity 1 Go to, go 
to ! take a wife, and avenge yourself upon your posterity ! 

Eva. Shall we see you at Mr. Fortescue's assembly to-night, 
Mr. Lorimer % 

Jos. You will, madam, if my obscure person is visible out 
of your illuminated eyes. 

Ernest. Then will you pardon us for a little while, old fel- 
low 1 Lovers have the privilege of inhospitality, you know ; 
and I am sure you are longing to smoke a cigar. Au rewir ! 

{Exeunt Ernest and Eva.) 

Jos. (lighting cigar). That girl is altogether too pretty to 
be permitted to lower herself by marrying — and least of all 
with a fossil like Fortescue. I must make haste to rescue her 
from such a calamity ; and if I am too late to save her from 
the altar, I can at least endeavor to reconcile the poor victim 
to her fate. I am truly catholic in my tastes — I like them of 
all complexions, all temperaments, thick or thin, married or 
single ; if they are only female, I find them charming. Henry 
the Eighth was right ; he could kill off his wives as fast as 
they became troublesome, and yet he contented himself with 
six. Few men with his privileges would have displayed his 
moderation. For me, I could dispose of a wife per week with 
ease ; it would be delightful to have a fresh young girl served 
up with one's muffins and " Saturday Review." I use a wo- 
man as I do this cigar — a few delicious whiffs, and the devil 
take the stub ! But then there's Fortescue — he's as jealous 
as Juno, and horribly fierce when you twist his tail ; he's rny 
cousin too — ha ! ha ! ha ! — but I'll contrive to cozen him in 
spite of his teeth ! I have it ! I'll wager she doesn't know 
that Ernest takes opium ; he was always damnably sly about 
it, I remember. I'll snatch the first occasion of telling the 
poor girl ; it is my simple duty to do so, much as it may pain 



54 COTHURNUS AND LYRE. 

me ; and that ought to break off the match, I think. It shall 
be done to-night ; I'll invite her into the library while the con- 
cert is goiag on, and tell her there ; it will require some dex- 
terity, b»t I can accomplish it ; the devil knows how to give 
g®o«l advice, and he can so sugar the pill that the patient will 
swallow it without a grimace. I am sorry for poor Fortescue, 
of course ; but I sacrifice him in the cause of morality ; the 
race of Roman fathers is not yet extinct. Fortescue is wel- 
come to take his pleasure, to be sure ; but when it comes to a 
question of lawfully begotten issue, I protest in the name of 
humanity. He may sow all the wild oats he pleases, but he 
shan't raise up seed to supplant me in my inheri Lance ! What 
does he want with posterity % hasn't he got me % and does he 
suppose I shall sit tamely by and see my vested interests de- 
molished with a pap-spoon 1 Not while I have a brain to con- 
ceive stratagems, and a tongue to achieve them ! By-the-bye, 
I must endeavor to compromise the Trevelyan in some way ; I 
shall have to extinguish the lights in the library by accident 
and let the servants discover us, or arrange some little innocent 
artifice of that kind ; and then I think the affair will march. 
And then, unless the omens all deceive, 
I'll play the devil with this blue-eyed Eve ! 

{Exit:) 

SCENE M.—A room in Ernest's house. Enter Jerome, luith a ladle. 

Jerome. Heaven be praised! all goes well! My supper 
will be a masterpiece ! a veritable Da Vinci ! There is noth- 
ing more to fear ; I may sing Te Deum in advance : {sings) 

Hey-diddle diddle ! the cat and the fiddle ! 

Yes, yes, such as I am, I think I have achieved somewhat to- 
day. Ah ! what a supper I have created ! classic, superb, 
divine ! worthy of great Jove and amiable Amphitryon. Noth- 



Act III., Scene n.] EENEST. 55 

ing nutritious ! no, no ! if people will feed, let them go else- 
where; that is their affair ; I am an artist, not a stoker ; my 
Muse is ethereal, celestial. They must mortify their carnal 
affectioifs if they come to my table ; I'll not be a pander to 
any man's animal appetite. But one must live, I suppose ; — 
so they may get their dinners beforehand, in a decent privacy ; 
a hungry man cannot stay to enjoy the naked subhmity of a 
consomme, or the airy grace of an a la bonne femme. dii 
immortales! who am I, that I should be chosen to introduce 
■to the world my epos of to-night 1 — a sucking-pig garnished 
with olives! Ah! the hero! sleeping like an infant Apollo 
among his bays ! And it was I who conceived him ! I, Peter 
Paul Jerome ! By Pollux '. I tremble when I think of the 
vii'gin purity, the sweet sensibility, the awful and exquisite 
lovehness of my adorable salad ! The whole of civilization is 
contained in that salad ! But I am only casting pearls before 
— ah me ! There is Mr. Fortescue, for example ; well, well ! 
we cannot all be great ; stars must be of different magnitudes, 
or the heavens would become tedious. Then there is Mr. 
Stuckey — the barbarian! he eats like an atheist; he has no 
reverence for the most sacred mysteries of my calling ; well 
or ill done, roast or boiled, 'col-au-'vent or croquette, all's one 
to him ; he even dares to be ribald at the expense of our ter- 
minology, and blasphemes us by tweedle-dum and tweedle-dee ! 
Ah ! he is a dangerous man ! society will suffer at his hands 
yet ; I say no more. Bah, these English ! they have no souls ! 
Briton as I am, I could denationalize myself for the sake of 
culture. They do not contemn genius in fair France, where I 
learnt my art and my rhetoric — would I were well there ! but 
there must be apostles and martyrs, I suppose. Stay, I have 
forgotten my letter ! {Pulls out letter and reads it) So ; here 
at last is a tribute to virtue ; Mr. Carroll's cook — a good hon- 



56 COTHURNUS AND LYRE. 

est fellow, but prosaic — asks me to assist him at the wedding- 
breakfast. Assist him ! yes, I will assist him as Addison did 
Steele ; it is aut Ccesar aut nullus with me. But I will accept 
his retainer — yes, yes — and then — a peerage or Westminster 
Abbey ! — Ah, here comes Jane — a pretty creature, if it were 
not for her truncated nose. Poor girl, I think she aspires to 
my hand. • 

Enter Servant. 

Ah, Jane, you are longing to see my preparations for supper, 

I know ; well then, my good girl 

Servant. To the devil with your kickshaws — I have to dress 

my ladies ! 

^ (Slaps his face and exit.) 

Jer, a blow ! and an insult to my religion ! I will have 

blood for this ! blood ! Give me a spit, there ! 

(Exit.) 

SCEKE III. — A room in the Fortescue manor-house, brilliantly lighted. 
In the centre is a band of musiciaiis, who from time to time strike up 
martial airs and compositions befitting a festival. A company of 
guests is making the circuit of the stage, two by tivo ; others stand or 
sit near the walls and windows. As each pair approaches the front 
of the stage their conversation is audible, and continues to be until 
they begin to recede. 

First Lady. Don't you enjoy this overture to Tannhauser 1 
There is such a verm about it, such an elaji 

First Gentliman. So there is ; so much fizz, you know, so 
much go ! 

First Lady. And yet, though it fairly b7'Ule \vhh.fcux d' ar- 
tifice, it is without one soupqon of a coup de tJiedtre. 

First Gent. Like a fellow I know that's always a howling 
swell, and yet never has anything loud about him, don't you 
know'? 



Act III., Scene Ill.l ERNEST. 57 

First Lady. Ah, when I am listening to delicious music, I 
feel inspired ; space, time, thought, dissolve themselves into 
the infinite, the eternal, the unutterable ; I experience all the 
emotions of a canarj' ! 

First Gent. Yes, quite so ; music does make a fellow very- 
chirpy ; and whenever the band plays Rule Britannia, I feel 

as if I wanted to crow, you know. 

{Theypass on.) 

Second Gent. How very distressing ! Last Tuesday, I think 
you said 1 

Second Lady. Last Tuesday evening, at a quarter past 
seven. 

Second Gent. At a quarter past seven ! How shocking ! 
And on a Tuesday evening ! This is frightful ! frightful ! 

Second Lady. Yes, and Mrs. Willoughby's housemaid — an 
exceedingly intelligent young woman, quite a superior person 
for one in her station — says that their behavior was most in- 
delicate ! 

Second Gent. You don't say so, my dear lady ! Well, well, 
well! But her manners were certainly very forward; and I 
always thought the attitude of her neck was extremely pro- 
nounced. 

Second Lady. Yes, and the pose of her wrist was positively 

indecent ! 

(They pass on.) 

Third Gent. Mrs. Taylor not popular in the village 1 You 
astonish me ! Why, she devotes her whole time to the com- 
position of charitable petticoats ! 

Third Lady. Mere sacks, my dear sir, not cut in the fashion 
At all ! She is the very Inquisitor-General of artificial flowers — 
cries fee-faw-fum to a furbelow — and makes a mad bull of her- 
self at the sight of a red ribbon ! She has the soul of a beadle 
and the taste of a bat. 



58 COTHUBNUS AND lYRE. 

Third Gent. But, charity covers a multitude of sins, they say. 

Third Lady. Other people's charity, then ; her own, like her 
skirts, is too scanty to hide her cloven feet. Then she is ill- 
favored and religious — two faults that poor people cannot 
endure ; they are willing to accept charity, but they must add 
their own pepper and vinegar. After all, her good actions are 
only good acting ; she is never in earnest but when she plays 
the devil. 

Third Gent. Will you ridicule me to your next partner in 
this way 1 

Third Lady, Most certainly I shall ; the absent are always 
wrong, you know. 

Third Gent. You are candid, at any rate. Will you not tell 
me to my face what you think of me '? I promise not to be 
offended. 

Third Lady. What, tell the truth in cold blood 1 The 
case is not so desperate, I hope. We have refined away all 
the rougher virtues, my dear sir, just as we no longer carry 
swords in public ; the beneficent despotism of Mrs. Grundy 
has inflbulated us all in order that we may co-exist in com- 
fort ; our claws remain, but they must be veiled in velvet. 
One must protect Society by means of these decent fictions ; 
expose her to the truth, and you inoculate her with barbarism. 
Speak the truth to a man's face ! I trust I have been taught 
better ! you forget, sir, that I have a reputation to lose. 

(The]/2}ass on.) 

Fourth Gent. Not know that gentleman, Mary ! Why, it 
is John Stebbins ! the illustrious John Stebbins ! 

Fourth Lady. Ah yes, indeed; the illustrious John Steb- 
bins ; to be sure ! 

Fourth Gent. Architect of the pedestal of the statue of 
Martin Tupper at Burton-on-Trent, you remember. 



Act m.. SCENE III.] ERNEST. 59 

Fourth Lady. An architect, is he ^. What a horrible squint 

he has ! 

FouRTU Gent. Squint, my dear ! He possesses a remarka- 
ble complexity of vision, it is true ; but it is necessary that an 
architect should squint. 

Fourth Lady. Well, well— but look at his nose ! all nos- 
trils, like a baboon's ! 

Fourth Gent. His nose is eminently Socratic, my dear, 
and performs the functions of an umpire between the contend- 
ing eyes with an admirable impartiahty. The nose is a very 
good nose, qua nose ; what more would you have 1 

Fourth Lady. But don't you think his red hair is unbe- 
coming 1 

Fourth Gent. He has red hair, I grant you. I have no 
excuse for the hair; but a man of his profession is bound to 
be thoroughly read, you know. 

Fourth Lady. Then you admire his freckles, I suppose 1 
Fourth Gent. No, Mary, I condone them. A creator of 
the beautiful must himself be fair ; and the fairer a man is, the 
more freckles he has. Stebbins's freckles are the parasites of 
his beauty and the conditions of his immortality. 

Fourth Lady. Well, George, your aunt Randolph has 

freckles enough, I am sure ; but I could never see that she 

was more immortal than other people. Then there's my 

. cousin Robert at Wadleigh— he has no talents in spite of his 

i'^^^^^^- {They pass on.) 

Fifth Gent. What odious cattle those Verriers are ! Why 
does Fortescue invite us to meet them 1 The man is a mere 
colossus of meat ; his nose is a pope's-nose, his eyes float in 
melted butter, and his cheeks are like raw beefsteaks— and 
rump-steaks at that. Pah ! 



60 COTHURIsfUS AND LYRE. 

Fifth Lady. Don't be so coarse, Charles, if you please ! 
The man is well enough ; he is clean and fresh, at any rate ; 
but the woman is most repulsive, I admit. And after all, her 
face is the best part of her ; her nose is not frail, at any rate ; 
and her value to poor Mr. Verrier is just two shillings and 
sixpence. 

Fifth Gent. Why two-and-sixpence % 

Fifth Lady. Because a virtuous woman is a crown to her 
husband, my dear. 

Fifth Gent. The woman will pass ; she is not the most 
polished of the ornamental sex, it is true ; but she will pass. 
But her husband is detestable, by Jove ! 

Fifth Lady. Well, Charles, he has a very good figure, I am 
sure ; and those curly buff whiskers of his are simply sweet. 
Then he must have been somebody, you know; they say he 
was a Major in the Guards. 

Fifth G5;nt. He indeed ! a drum-major, my dear, in the 
Garde Mobile, which is French for the Running Foot, T take 
it. I tell you the fellow is mere ox ; he ought to be shut up 
in a stall, and fed on cauliflowers, or whatever it is that cows 
eat. It is an offence against decency to put him in the public 
eye. 

Fifth Lady. Yes, we know your taste ; you like a dark com- 
plexion and a yard of waist, like that swarthy Miss Higgins — 
a perfect mop of a girl, with her black head and her straight 
figure. I wonder you have the face to allude to her in my 

presence. For shame, sir ! 

{They 2)ass on.) 

Sixth Gent. She was a Mumford, one of the Floyd Mum- 
fords of Berkshire. The eldest Miss Mumford, you remem- 
ber, married a Wickham ; Worcester Wickham, the last of the 
Wickhams of Uxwood. Ah, that was a fine old family ! one 



Act III., Scene III.] ERNEST. 61 

of the good old Englisli stock ! There are none such nowa- 
days. 

Sixth Lady. No, indeed. Colonel ! I recollect poor Worces- 
ter Wickliam well ; there was such a distinguished air about 
him, though they do say he had more ancestors than brains. 

Sixth Gent. The better for him ! What does a gentleman 
want with brains "? There was a family for you ! What a ped- 
igree ! what an escutcheon ! The eldest son was always 
christened Worcester, and always married a Somers or a 
Catherwood. Fine English gentlemen every one of them ! 
none of your pestilential modern socialism about them ! For 
generations all the boys were idiots, and all the girls deaf and 
dumb. 

Sixth Lady. Ah, Colonel, times are sadly altered ! The 
Robinsons that own the place now are very different from the 
Wickhams. There's no noble imbecility running in their blood 
— the vulgar tradespeople ! 

SrxTH Gext. No, indeed, they are all sane enough, con- 
found them ! Why there's not even a parson in the family ! 

Sixth Lady. My dear sir, what is to become of the Church 

and State, if such things are allowed to go on ? 

{Tliey x>(iss 071.) 

Ernest {to Owen, -who is with Jiim). Yes, yes, at last I am 
happy ; I can smoke a calumet with the gods, and return the 
Thunderer's nod with a smile. And as for you, my friend, I 
shall always feel that, next to my dearest Eva, I owe my salva- 
tion to you. There is more virtue in marriage than in all the 
other sacraments united ; even with the shadow and perfume 
of it my soul has been strengthened and refreshed. 

Owen. You were always horribly heterodox, my dear fel- 
low ; you forget that we have reformed all that since Henry 
the Eighth's time. Matrimony is no longer a sacrament with 



62 COTHVRNUS AND LYRE. 

us ; we liave but one means of grace left nowadays — and that 

is so potent a chrism, that even St. Peter's keys must he oiled 

with it. 

Ernest. And what sacrament is that, pray 1 

Owen. Patrimony, my good sir ! patrimony ! ^ 

{Theij pass on.) 

Eva {to Joseph). Poetic license, sir ; love does not enlarge 
the heart and quicken the sympathies ; far from it. If I love 
the man more, I love the world less ; if I am warm to him, it is 
"because I freeze for others ; just as the pine-tree grows green 
and thrives, while in its shadow it creates a desert. 

Joseph. Owen Stuckey would tell you, applying the theory 
of the conservation of energy to the science of the heart, that 
you were originally endowed with so much lovingkindness and 
no more, and that you could not increase its volume, though 
you might change its direction or multiply its currents. And 
I, in my own person, must tell you that it would be well if you 
could change — but my tongue is running away with me. 

Eva. What do you mean, sir 1 I conjure you to 

Joseph. Hush, hush ! I have a revelation to make to you — 

but not now, not here. See, they are going to supper ; we 

must follow, or we shall be missed. Meet me in the library in 

an hour's time, and I will tell you all in private. Not a word ! 

Will you permit me 1 

{Exeunt.) 
Scene closes. 

SCENE IV. — Library in the Fortescue house, dimly lighted, and open- 
ing upon the lawn, as before. Enter Agnes upon the lawn, approach^ 
ing the house. 

Agnes [sings). 

My lodging is on the cold ground. 

And very hard is my fare. 
But that which grieves me most of all 



Act III., Scene IV.] ERNEST. g3 

Many a sore mile hare I come to reach this door, and now I 
daren't go in ! I'm sure the prodigal son's heart would have 
failed him at the last, if his old father hadn't seen him afar 
off. Ah, if Mr. Fortescue was here, he would take me back 
and forgive me, I know, for he was always the kind gentleman 
to his dependents. Dear old house ! I could kiss every stone 
in your walls and every pane in your windows, I could ! 
the black time I've seen since I stole out of your doors to hide 
the shame that I knew was coming upon me ! Joseph Lori- 
mer, Joseph Lorimer, the vengeance of God light on you for 
the wrong you did me ! Many's the hard road and the sharp 
stone, the bitter cold night and the bitter cold look I've had 
to suffer since then ! My dear little baby was born in a pin- 
fold ; and how I've kept him alive till this day, the blessed 
Lord only knows ! 'Tis past telling how often the poor crea- 
ture has gone a-whimpering all day for the nourishment I 
couldn't, couldn't give him ; it did cut my heart, it did, to see 
him begging so pitiful with his little eyes ! and glad I've often 
been to share a crust with the dogs in the kennel. And at 
night I've had to snatch him up and run because I heard the 
drunken men roaring along the lanes, and the heart in the 
breast of me would be churning for fear. But the men were 
kinder than the women, after all ; the drunkenest man that 
ever staggered has more feeling for a wretch like me than the 
sweetest lady that ever sat in silk ; and if it hadn't been for 
my baby's little twining fingers, I should have died in the 
roads long ago. And now here I am at the door, and dursn't 
go in. {2Iusic within) Music ! there's a ball in the house then; 
I'll creep in somewhere and hide until it's all over. Here's the 
library window standing open ; what if I venture inside '? But 
0, 1 do hope they'll take good care of my baby at the public- 
house, as they promised me to ! {Enters library, and screens 



64 COTHUBNUS AND LYRE. 

herselfbeliind the wmdoic-curtains. Laughter icitMn ; Lori- 
mer's 'ooice heard among the rest) Joseph Lorimer here ! My 
God ! Then there's black deceit here ! there's wicked seduc- 
tion here ! Hush ! he's coming ! 

Enter Joseph. 
Joseph. My little pullet hasn't come, I see. A woman that 
can't be punctual for an intrigue has no good salt in her blood 
— she forgets the respect she owes to the devil ; she's hardly 
worth the trouble of ruining, I suspect. Let us have light I I 
hate making love in the dark, like a tomcat. {Goes to the 
chandelier and raises the light — then turning, perceives 
Agnes) — Agnes, by the eternal God ! 
^ Agnes. Ay, Agnes, by the eternal God I 

(Joseph rushes to the windoio, leaps out and exit. Curtain.) 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I. — Vestibule in the Fortescue mansion, out of which other 
apartments open I a flight of steps leads from the lawn to the main 
entrance, and the outer door stands wide open. Enter Joseph., from 
a side room. 

Jos. Lord ! what an escape I had last night ! 'Tis seldom 
I lose my presence of mind as I did when that girl stej^ped 
out from behind the curtains ; I am rarely at a loss for a lie, 
thank God ! but this shock struck me so suddenly that, pst I 
I Avent flying through the window like a football ! Well, at 
^ny rate, I am forewarned, and if she comes prowling around 
the house again, I shall show my teeth. My little plan to 
entrap the Trevelyan miscarried sadly last night ; but I have 
conceived a better one. I find Fortescue has destroyed every 
dram and every grain of opium he possessed ; he hasn't kept 



Act IV., ScENB I.] ERNEST. 65 

enough to send a dormouse to sleep. But I am equal to the 
occasion ; it shall never be said of Joseph Lorimer that he 
hadn't a bottle at a friend's service. (Pulls phial from Ids 
pocket) There it is ; solution of opium ; best to be had for 
money ; the mere smell of it warranted to make a man snore 
at rifle range. I told the apothecary I wanted the best ; if I 
have a fault, it is that I am over-generous ; I spill the wine of 
my bounty on the sucking sand, and give an udder to every 
palm. This is my wedding-present to Ernest Fortescue. I 
shall just clap it on the table in his room, and leave the cork 
out ; if he can withstand the sight and smell of it, I'll turn 
monk. If he is Avorthy the name of a man, he is bound to 
make a beast of himself when such a temptation is thrown in 
his way ; and surely that must break off the match, or at any 
rate postpone it. I know human nature as the devil does ; we 
are all ripe rogues, ready to fall into the tempter's basket at 
a touch ; damnation is too good for us, that's certain. {Exit 
into an apartment on the right of the hall, then returns empty- 
handed) The noose is baited ! the devil will have another client 
soon. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Well, why not 1 I am tempting him 
for the good of his soul's health ; if he's fool enough to suc- 
cumb to the seductions of a glass bottle and a dose of stinking 
physic, he has no business to marry ; what should such a 
weakling do with a wife 1 I feel it to be my sacred duty to 
rescue his unborn babes from their unfortunate paternity ; I 
will be a father to them myself, cost what it may. I can whip 
the devil round the stump, never fear ! it wasn't for nothing 
that I studied theology at St. Bees. — By Jove, here comes 
Agnes with a baby in her arms — my child, I suppose ; ha ! 
ha ! ha ! Let her come ! I know my cue. 

Enter Agnes from the lawn, carrying an infant. 



66 COTEimNUS AND LYRE. 

That's a fine little fellow you have there, my good woman ; 
just like his father, I presume? they all are. 

Agnes. He is your own son, Joseph Lorimer, and well you 
know it ! 

Jos. I! you do me too much honor, my dear creature ; 
you mistake me for the footman, I suppose. Not but what I 
should like to be better acquainted with you, my dear, {at- 
tempting to pinch he7' cheek). 

Agnes. Stand back, sir! don't dare to lay a finger on me! 
I am come here to know if you will do me right for all the sor- 
row I've supped because of you 1 

Jos. Can it be possible that I have unwittingly injured a 
human being 7 Here, my good woman ! {offers money ) here 
is half-a-sovereign for you ; that ought to buy me a plenary in- 
dulgence for all oflfences, past and future. 

Agnes. God ! money to me ! Not for the world, sir ! 
Will money buy me back my virtue 1 will money wash the 
mould off my good name % No, sir ! I may have given my 
soul away, like a simple fool, but I'll not take money for it 
now ! 

Jos. But, my dear, if you have lost your reputation, as 
you say you have, I fail to see how I can be of service to you. 
I should advise you to join some decent Methodist congrega- 
tion, and profess religion ; that seems to be the only chance 
left you. ( Whistles). 

Agnes. My God, this is too much ! ! ! ! {Bursts into 
tears'). 

Jos. {aside). Gad, here's Eortescue ! now there'll be the 
devil to pay ! 

Enter Eknest, l. 

Ernest. What does all this mean '? What, Agnes 1 is it you, 



Act IV., Scene I. ERNEST. 67 

my poor girl 1 we have missed you sadly ; and is this your 
child 1 

Agnes, Yes, sir, it is myself, and this is my little baby. But 
0, Mr. i'ortescue, {falling on her knees) — my dear master, 
take me back again, take me back, for the sake of the sweet 
little sucking child ! 

Ernest. Take you back, Agnes 1 to be sure I will, my poor 
creature. Hush ! hush ! don't cry ! {Raises her to her feet.) 

Agnes. God bless you, Mr. Fortescue ! you have a kind 
heart ! a kind heart ! Ah, if all folk were only like you, this 
would be a happy world ! 

Ernest {aside). Heaven forbid! {Aloud) But answer me 
this, Agnes ; who was your betrayer ? 

Agnes. There he stands ! {pointing to Joseph.) 

Ernest. What, Lorimer ! Is this true, sir 7 

Jos. Eh 1 why, upon my soul I can't say. It's very possi- 
ble. {Laughs). 

Ernest. Answer me plainly, sir ! I want the naked truth. 

Jos. 0, hang it, Fortescue ! spare my blushes, you know ! 
Please remember that truth is never naked nowadays, in good 
society ; she is simply decolletee. But I shall plead an alibi 
to this terrible indictment. They say that the human frame 
is decomposed and recomposed every few weeks or so : now, 
some predecessor in my office may have had a hand in this lit- 
tle affair ; for myself, I know nothing of it except by tradition. 

Ernest. You are a — stop, you are my guest j — but when 
you shall have left this house, sir, I shall possess the right to 
call you a villain. Have you no grace % do you not repent of 
your treachery to this woman 1 

Jos. Repent 1 of course I do ; my sole cleaves to the dust 
every time I cross the street. For the rest, I am a consequence, 
not a cause ; a man is what his environment makes him — and 



68 COTHURNUS AND LYRE. 

as my tailor always will cut my waistcoats like so many bal- 
loons, my habits are bound to be loose. I, sir, am an instru- 
ment in the hands of Providence ; he that made me must 
answer for me — I wash my hands of myself. 

Ernest. At least, sir, you will surely take this poor girl to 
wife, and so make her what reparation you may for the irre- 
trievable wrong you have done her % It is true she is not of 
your station — but neither was she of your station when you 
stooped to betray her. You will not refuse to wear the prize 
you have been at the pains to win ? 

Jos. Marry her ? ha ! ha ! ha ! very good ! Why, if I were to 
marry all the girls I have enjoyed, I should need a seraglio 
and the revenues of an empire ! 

Ernest, You will quit my house. 

Jos. I shall, sir ! 

{ExU.) 
Ernest. Why, Agnes, your feet are bleeding ! you must be 
in torture, my child. {Rings hell) I will see that you are 
cared for. 

Enter Servant. 

Jane, here is Agnes, your old companion ; put her to bed 
and nurse her well, if you please ; she is sick and suffering, as 
you see— and let her baby be carefully tended also. {Aside) 
And see that you do not reproach her with her misfortunes, 
Jane! 

Agnes. The Lord reward you, sir ! 

{Exeunt Agnes and Servant.) 
Ernest. This villain waxes fat on fornication. 

And heaven withholds her lightnings, while the just, 
Goaded by conscience for each peccadillo. 
Wrinkle and waste and die. How fresh and fine 
He CToes among his victims ! their salt tears 



Act IV., Scene I.] ERNEST. 69 

Make his complexion shine, and from their blood 

His curling hair drinks lustre ; such as he 

Are Fortune's darlings, the elect of men. 

You fathers that would see your children thrive. 

Take them and bind them for apprentices 

To the most noble Belial ; they shall find him 

A mild and easy master, one that loves 

To see his pupils fat and full of mirth ; 

And if they do not spur too furiously 

The freedom that he gives, they may achieve 

Renown and happiness and hale old age. 

And though the wages of the place are death. 

It is the market price ; death, like the rain. 

Falls upon just and unjust equally. 

All the sweet virtues of Saint Wilberforce 

Cannot embalm him ; he is just as rotten 

As George the Fourth and that lascivious crew. 

What would you have 1 

{Exit B.) 

Re-enter Joseph. 

Jos. Poor Fortescue ! what a weight of dignity he carries ! 

he puts me constantly in mind of His Highness the King of 

Spades ! Pshaw ! what a to-do about a servant-wench ! But 

what an ass I was to let the girl blubber and rouse the whole 

house ! I might haive known that half-a-sovereign was of no 

use ; I ought to have made it a five-pound note, and have done 

with it. After all, society is to blame, not I ; if the line of 

descent were only traced through the mother, and bastards 

were supported from the public purse, all would go well, and 

the women would have a chance to be happy. It is to that 

end I have labored, and I trust not in vain. Well ! I must 

get out of this house, I suppose ; but I hope before long to 



70 COTHURNUS AND LYRE. 

return as its master. — Stay ! here comes the enemy ! I must 
wait and put a spoke in her little wheel. 

Enter YiNK,from the lawn. 
Eva. Good-morrow, friend ! where did your worship hide 
After the ball 1 I sought you high and low. 

But to no purpose. 
Jos. Pardon me, good lady ! 

A sudden tumult of the ancient Adam 

Compelled me to retire — it was heaven's warning 

Against the iniquity of midnight crabs. 

But since I have the sufferance of your ear. 

What if I, like a dog that guards your honor. 

Begin to bark of danger 1 
Eva. You may speak. 

Jos. Then, without whereas or preamble, thus : 

You are affianced to a gentleman 

Whose noble nature and whose probity 

It were as much an insult to bepraise 

As 'twere to hang upon his lordly oaks 

The frippery of a lap-dog ; yet withal. 

As ev'n the straightest pine-tree hath a crook. 

He hath his faults. 
Eva. Ay, but these very faults 

Help make a man of him — without their presence 

H© were inhuman. Virtues, friend, and vices 

Are accidents of fortune, which the gods 

Send like the storms and sunbeams as they list : 

The commonwealth of manhood levels all. 

Humanity is loyal to itself. 

Pledged like a bride for better or for worse 

To its own weakness ; what the gods have joined 

We may not sunder. 



Act IV., Scene I.] ERNEST. 71 

Jos. {aside). Ha ! is she so lax 7 

The better for my purpose ! {Aloud) True, sweet lady ! 

You ^re the mouthpiece of the Christian graces ; 

And I were an unpardonable churl 

To break upon your innocent repose 

For a mere foible ; but our Ernest, lady, 

(I speak it under favor) hath a vice 

Will crush him, body and soul, I fear to heaven. 

As I would crush a peasecod. 
Eva. Spare your fears ! 

He needs them not ; ke has reclaimed himself 

These many months ; did you not mark the change 1 

With what a noble and unclouded mien 

He carries him 1 
Jos. So ! I am glad to hear it ; 

Heartily glad ; but yet — pray pardon me, 

I know the world so well — the man is mortal. 

And these temptations, like a mousing cat. 

Will bide their time ! 
Eva. Sir, he has given his promise. 

And that to me ! 
Jos. That ends all question, then. 

But — do not chide a cousinly misgiving — 

I have I know not what of premonition 

(As all men have by times)— that while we speak. 

Some brooding thunderbolt of destiny 

Eva. What, you are superstitious '? ha, ha, ha ! 

The augur Lorimer ! Pray, have the hens 

Refused to peck 1 Come, I shall soon convince you! 
{Throws open door r.; Ernest is discovered lying on a couch in a blind 
stupor, with a half -empty phial near him.) 

God, my husband ! 



72 C0THUBNU8 AND LYRE. 

This is no sighl for me, sir ! close the door ! 

I may not spy upon his nakedness. 

(Joseph closes the door.) 

Not less for this, sir, yonder man concerns me ; 

Such as he is, I love him, heart and soul. 

I am his dog, sir ! think you it is fit 

That I should snuflT the master's hand that feeds me. 

And if I find a blemish or a mole 

Whine and reject my meat ^ Not so, by heaven ! 

He is my lord ; and if he please to slay me. 

His will be done ! so I may lick his hand, 

I ask no better fortune. Look you, sir ! 

I will not play the devil's-advocate 

Against a man that loves me as his life ; 

There are enough of his own flesh and blood 
To do him that kind office — I do take him 
With all his faults ; there was no warranty 
Of soundness in the faith, or Christian virtues. 
When we exchanged our hearts ; and for my part, 
I thank my God I am a woman still. 
And not a barking Fury ; be it mine 
To rock him on my bosom like a babe 
Until he moans no more ! 
Jos. I hope, dear lady. 

Your charity will not impute to me 

Eva. Sir, you have wronged me foully ! go in peace ! 

I leave you to the mercy of yourself. 

{Exit Joseph.) 
The lines have fallen to me in barren places. 

And desolation is mine heritage ! 

{Exit.) 



Act IV., Scene II.] EBXEST. 73 



SCENE n.— Ernest'9 library, a.s before. He is discovered just emerg- 
ing from the torpid condition in which the preceding scene left him ; 
as ?ie becomes consciotis, he starts to his feet in frenzy. 

Ernest. What, what ! My God, again ? fool, fool, fool ! 
Damnable fool ! Is this the end of all % 
Why then let hell stretch wide her gory jaws 
And snatch me from the sight of honest men, 
Ay, and of rogues and whores, whose vilest deeds 
Are godlike unto mine ! There is no God ! 
Else would the lightning blast me where I stand 
Black as my crime ! Soft ! soft ! this is too harsh ! 
I wrong myself ; some starveling cur, perchance. 
Has ere to-day gone whining to the thief 
For one sweet morsel of the meat he bears ; 
If such there be, I am his peer and brother, 
And worthy to receive mine accolade 
At Ketch the hangman's hands, and in the stocks 
Be dubbed a Knight Companion of the Kennel ! 
Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 

They have me down ; it is all over now ! 
Hard knees are on my throat ; the good God screams 
"He has it! he has got it ! " — Yes, great Lord! 
Turn back thy thumbs and bid the butcher smite ! 
See, dying I salute thee — with my spittle ! 

So then, one little sip of this elixir 
Outvalues all that men account most dear I 
There's no discovery of our fertile age 
Can rival this 1 the world owes me a statue ! 
Simple as I stand here, I am the Gama 
Of this Good Hope ! not, unto us, Lord! 



74 COTEURNUS AND LYRE. 

I had a dream. ^ There was an open park 
With grass and manj^ trees, and one broad lake 
Dappled and rippHng ; there were throngs of people, 
And children happy in a holiday. 
And on a terrace at the water's edge 
There stood a stately and colossal figure 
Like some great Nimrod from Assyrian mounds ; 
Wings had it like a bird ; its head was human. 
Bearded and crowned ; but all below the waist 
Was like a brute, four-footed, lusty-limbed : 
It was propelled on wheels, and had within it 
An actor, for methought a play was toward — 
A play without a plot, without a cue. 
And real as death. And ever from the lake 
There came a sound of song, faint as an echo, 
— The merest beaded thread of melody — 
Yet of such sweetness and imperious power 
It might have drawn the very sun from heaven ; 
But like a cliff the Nimrod on the shore 
Stood, wreathed about with gold at every joint. 
And mute as Memnon to the maiden moon ! 
Then quoth a woman in the throng to me, 
" 'Tis such and such a time since first the tune 
" Began to ring, and still he does not stir ! 
" Well done. Sir Statue ! " — And even as she spake 
The people gave a shout, for the great figure 
Was moving — down the slope with ponderous grace 
It rolled, and onward till the waters rose 
Breast-high about it — still it rolled, pursuing 
A mist that hovered o'er the flying voice — 
Sudden it stayed — the song ceased on the moment — 
A boat was found, and with a line they hauled 



Act IV., Scene II.] ERNEST. 75 

The image home — the hollow trunk was opened — ■ 

There stood the actor with his arms outstretched — 

Dead! 

So ifluch for dreams ! I shall not dream again. 

I'll not endure myself another day ! 

I am a quack that knows not how to cure, 

But I can kill ! 
{Opens drawer of cabinet, produces pistol, cocks it, and is raising it to 

his head, when enter Eva.) 
Eva. Merciful God, what's here ! 

{Snatches pistol from Ernest's hand.) 

What, murderer, would you slay before my face 

The man that I have chosen 1 
Ernest. I would slay 

The man that has betrayed you ! Let me die ! 

Give me the pistol back, sweetheart, and leave me ! 

You would not keep me like a Tantalus 

Thirsting in vain for Lethe, when the stream 

Was even at my lips 1 Go, if you love me ! 

Why did you enter % in another moment 

I should have ceased to play the fool for ever, 

And shown the world what miserable stuff 

These brains are made of. Go ! I am not fit 

For your pure eyes to rest on ! Go, I say ! 

Will you not go 1 
Eva. Never ! my place is here ! — 

What is the matter, love '? you are not well ; 

Pillow your head upon my shoulder — so — 

While with my arms I weave about your neck 

A magic circle that shall break the spells 

And melt the stony heart of Destiny. 

Lie still, my battered warrior — my love ! 



76 COTHURNUS AND LYRE. 

How hot your forehead feels ! I'll cool it for you 

With kisses, and perchance a tear or two ! — 

Look at my eyes ! T love you all the same 

And all the while ! Do you take me for a wind 

Changing with every season hot or cold 7 

Nay, but ray love is one perennial summer, 

Suffused with sunshine and the song of birds ! 

My bosoms are not snows, but roses blowing 

For you alone of men ! Are you content 7 

Lie still ! my arms are strong ; do you like to feel 

My hair against your cheek ? where shall I kiss you 1 

I'll hold you fast, my darling, though the world 

Crumble to ashes ! 

Eknest. you gracious gods I 

I do beseech you ! let me pass away 

In this supremest moment ! 

{Curtain.) 



ACT V. 

SCENE I. — Garden before Carroll's house y time, a little before sundown. 
Enter Mary. 
Mary. What's keeping John, I wonder 1 Poor Miss Eva 
must be wild to hear Avhat the news is from the Squire's. Ever 
since Mr. Fortescue was taken with the fever two or three 
days before the wedding that was to have been, the poor thing 
has been fretting herself into her grave. She wanted to nurse 
him herself, and I should like to know who had a better right 
to-^but Mr. Carroll put his foot down and forbid it — said it 
wasn't decent for a young lady to tend on a gentleman. 
Pshaw ! I wish there was no such thing as decency ! What sort 
of decency is it, if you please, that steps in between man and 



Act v., Scene I.] ERNEST. 77 

wife, or them that's as good 1 that beats me, I confess. But 
she steals away in spite of him every now and then, and gets a 
spell at nursing ; and they say it's wonderful how she takes to 
it. And .when Mr. Fortescue was out of his head, and raving in 
the middle of his fits, he always knew her the moment she came, 
and quieted down like a lamb ; and a pretty sight it was to see 
them, they do say. And it's my belief that if she was to catch 
the fever of him, she'd tend it and make much of it just as if 
it was one of her flowers — she dotes on everything that comes 
from Squire Fortescue. Where can John be, I wonder 1 I'll go 
and meet him, I believe. 

{Exit.) 
Enter Eva, from opposite side. 
Eva. Look ! look ! the very heavens rejoice with me ! 
Half to the pole yon purple of the West 
Rolls like a floor of polished amethyst 
Veined with pure gold ; the clear fair azure floats 
Above me, and the stealing waves of wind 
Touch me with coolness ; the melodious birds 
Pour from a hundred leafy minarets 
Their curfew-carol, and the quiet kine 
Move homeward from the milking. This fair eve 
Pillows upon her breast the seventh sweet sun 
Since that bright hour when Ernest was restored 
To reason and to me. Yon rosy skies 
Wear an auspicious color ; I am sure 
No grosser elements have struck their shadows 
Across these kindly rays — peace and good will 
Forged them of simple gold. 'Twere not amiss 
To seek him out a modest flower or two 



78 COTHURNUS AND LYRE. 

Such as the season yields ; poor thougli they be 
He'll prize them as his life. 
(Eta busies herself in ccmvposing a bouquet of flowers, and retires a little in 
order to do so. Then re-enter Mary with John ; the?/ converse with- 
out perceiving Eva, who overhears them.) 

Mary. There — have done, sir, for shame ! And now tell me, 
what's the news from the house to-night 1 

John. Bad, my dear ; very bad. 

Mary, Why, I thought he was up and about 1 

John. So he is ; goes all over the house, just as he used t®, 
though they won't let him go out of doors ; and he talks just 
as reasonable as you or me. But he's in a bad way for all 
that. 

Mary. How can that be, John 7 if he gets better, he must 
be doing well, I should think. 

John. Why, the doctors say that he's a broken-down man. 
All the life has been milked out of him, they tell ; and one of 
these days he'll collapse like a sucked gooseberry, by reason 
of premature old age. 

Mary. Old age ! what nonsense, John! and he not thirty! 

John. Premature old age I said, my dear — old age forced 
out of season, you know. And what's worse than that, they 
say the least little shock may addle his brains again. 

Mary. Ah ! that's bad ! that's bad ! 

John. Bad it is, my love ! though to look at him now, he 
seems as sensible as a sheep-dog. By-the-bye, the servant up 
at the house was telling me that when he was light-headed in 
the fever he would have it that he was a knight — a knight, my 
darlmg, is one of the men they play with at the chess — it 
moves with a kind of a hop, step and jump, so — like a donkey 
with the hobbles on, you know, or a jackdaw when he starts 
to fly. Well, it seemed to him that he was forced to be always 



Act v., Scene I.] ERNEST. 79 

a-lepping across and across over a big chess-board, from white 
square to black, from black square to white, hop-step-and- 
jump, hop-step-and-jump, all day long without ever a rest, 
and at every spring he would give a groan as if he felt the 
rowels raking into his flanks, so that 'twas pitiful to hear him ! 
Mary. Poor dear man ! John, don't say a word to Miss 
Eva about this I let Mr. Carroll break it to her. Come in, 
come in ! 

{Exeunt John and Maky into the house ; Eva comes forward as they re- 
tire.) 
Eva. God ! this is sharp I 

I cannot bear it ! Am I old so soon. 
Or does the round horizon rock with grief 1 
Ah gentle gods, I am a simple girl. 
Fatherless, motherless ; what have I done 
That I must lose him too ? 

Enter Owen. 

Sweet friend, kind friend ! 

— You are my friend, I know ; you always loved me ; 

Say that this news is false — say there is hope. 

And I will bless you on my bended knees ! 

Are you my friend, or no 1 
Owen. Would God, sweet lady. 

That I could offer up my life for his ! 

Trust me, my heart bleeds for you ! 
Eva. Must he die '? 

'Tis pity of it ! What ! no more than pity 1 

'Tis pity when the sheaves are scant in field. 

Or when a cup of costly ware is marred ; 

But when the noblest man in all the world 

Is hunted by the hounds of destiny 

And done to death, it is a crying scandal, 



80 COTHTTBNUS AND LYRE. 

A deadly wrong, a blot upon the scutcheon 
Of God himself ! So runs the world ! ha ! ha ! 
I make Almighty God my compliment 
Upon his work ! Fortune is turned assassin ; 
She lies in wait for every honest man 
To stab him in the back and cut his purse. 
That she may have the riches of his heart 
To lavish on her minions. 

Tell me, sir, 
How does my Ernest meet this harsh decree 1 
Bravely, I know I 

Owen. We have not told him yet; 

Nor shall we. Since his reason was restored. 
He is resolved to end this desperate strife 
With the temptations that have overthrown him. 
By his own death ; and, knowing what I know, 
I have encouraged and approved his purpose 
To the utmost of my power. 

Eva. What ! slay himself 1 

0, this is morbid ! this is mere despair ! 

Owen. Nay, call it hope ! a sane and healthy hope 
That when this pendulum we name the heart 
Ceases to swing, the arrest of motion checks 
Fever and hunger and the thousand cares 
That spur our wheels. But Ernest will not die 
If you forbid it, lady ; he desires 
To honor you in all things, and did send me 
With many a tender message breathing love 
To know your suffrage. 

Eva. 'Tis a cruel honor ; 

But I'll accept it. Tell me truly, friend ! 
Is't certain he will die/? 



Act v., Scene I.] EBITEST. 81 

Owen. It is not certain ; 

There are some chances in his favor yet. 

But few and feeble. 
Eva. Well — my vote is cast 

For" honor and for death — he shall not say 

His Eva held the fruit of desolation 

All rosy to his lips ! "Why, this is triumph ! 

My Ernest is a soldier whom the foe 

Have beaten to his tent ; their taunting trumpets 

Outscream the vultures on the bloody skirts 

Of the torn field ; their serried bayonets 

Gleam close at hand — but nevermore alive 

My warrior shall be taken ! his free spirit 

Soars like an untamed eagle to her crags. 

And out of his unconquerable breast 

The streamer of his blood flings high defiance ! 

Now by mine honor and my maidenhood 

I swear I would not have it otherwise !« 
Owen {aside). This firmness is too Stoic ; for my part 

I'd rather see her shed a tear or two ; 

She is not human. {Aloud) There is yet a matter 

Untold, that I would fain^have spared you, lady. 
Eva. Ah me ! yon sanguine skies foreshadowed blood ! 

Say on, sir ! I will suck my fortune dry. 
Owen. When the rude soldiers of the Austrian Gessler 

Had set the fatal fruit upon the head 

Of the young Tell, they none the less in mercy 

Mufiied his eyes, for fear his childish gaze 

Should pierce the father's heart and cause his hand 

To lose her craft. 
Eva. sir, no riddles, pray ! 

Owen. Then briefly thus — you must not see him, lady, 

Before he dies. 



82 COTHURNUS AND LYRE. 

Eva. Not see him ! wherefore not 1 

By heaven, I will not have it so ! you mock me ! 
Respect the feelings of a woman, sir ! 
0, this is too much ! my heart — my heart ! 

Owen. Believe me, lady, I am sorry for you ! 

I would my tongue were branded to the root 
For such foul news ! 

Eva. This cruelty is wanton ! 

The fiercest tj'-rant will not grudge his victims 
The pious luxury of a last farewell ; 
These tears of mine, are they forbidden too ] 
I do but weep for my depravity 
In being born a woman. — 0, forgive me ! 
I am wild with grief — I know not v/hat I say ; 
But in all gentleness I'll beg of you 
As though you were my father, and I lay 
Dying, but all incapable of death 
Till my last wish were granted — dear my friend, 
May I not put my arms about his neck 
And hold him to my breast one moment more 1 
I promise you I will not say a word, 
Nor lift an ej^elid, no, nor shed a tear ! 
0, sir, be kind to me ! my heart is breaking ! 
Ah, if you were a maiden, I would pray you 
By all the mysteries of our sisterhood. 
The sacred yearnings of our sex, the bosoms 
That hunger for the babe, the love we live on, — 
And you would yield, I know ! 

Owen. That were a kindness 

Keener than steel ! Bethink you, dear my lady, 
With what a torrid and tumultuous passion 
Our Ernest loves — he is combustible ; 



Act v., Scene I. EBNEST. 8! 

And if one spark should chance to light upon him 
Out of those ^yes of yours, that shine through tears 
Like the eternal stars 'twixt fleeting showers. 
Then all were lost! the fury of wild love 
Would burn and blind him, and consume in ashes 
Honor and resolution, manliness 
And all the blossoms of a dying virtue 
That we have watered with our tears, and sheltered 
From storm and summer. Will you serve him so 1 
Or would you hear the harsh and hideous laughter 
Of madness issuing from those lips, whose kisses 
Have sown the rose a hundred happy times 
About your cheek ? Ah, then forbear, sweet lady ! 

Eva. Why, you are right ; I pray you pardon me ! 
Beyond the Styx I'll meet him, and will take 
Sweet vengeance for this harshness ; he shall feel 
The kisses of a god, ambrosial. 
Fresh as Elysian dawnings. Pray you go. 
And say to Ernest, I am well, and send him 
This lock of hair — he used to praise my hair ; 
And look you take this message, word for word : 
" Fear not that I shall falter ; on the shore 
I stand and wave my kerchief, wishing you 
Good voyage, and a quiet port." 

Owen. I go ; 

And may the heavens have pity on your head ! 

{Exit.) 
Eva. all you gentle and immartal spirits 

My sisters, who have suffered, and do know 

How hard a thing it is to love and lose. 

Pity me ! let me feel your hands in mine ! 

Turn the white freshness of your young sweet faces 



34 COTHUBNUS AND LYRE. 

Blent with the starbeams on me ! whisper peace 

In these cool evening breezes! — What is this 7 

I am distraught with grief — 'tis a true saying, 

" Whom God would overthrow, he frenzies first ! " 

I will not pray, until the howling winds 

Come at my whistle ! Wife of ancient Job 1 

In my bereavement I am sib to you ; 

I could curse God and die ; this curdhng sorrow 

Makes atheists out of maids. 

Love ! Hope ! ye are but captive birds 

That pipe and prune your plumes an hour or two ; 

But when your gentle hearts are fain to fare 

Forth to the fields and woods and airy ways. 

Ye break your wings against the unseen bars 

Of destiny, and die ! 

{JExit.^ 

SCENE 11.— Library in Erkest's mansion, as before. Enter Ernest, 
who advances to the windows. 

Eknest. 'Tis a fair night ; a proper night to die in ! 
Cool, clear ; the ivory bosoms of the moon 
Cleave the white clouds with as divine a dawn 
As when Actaeon spied their snowy shapes 
Bare in the bath ; but not for ever more 
Shall I contemplate from these quiet seats 
The splendid gloom of summer nights, the glory 
Of the white moon, the rush and hush of ocean. 
The sunset's rosy isles, the rainbow's laughter, 
Nor hear the lark salute the dew-sprent feet 
Of April dawns that walk on violets. 
Well ! I have earned my grave, as other men 
Earn food and raimeot. 

Enter Owen. 

Quick ! what says my love 1 



Act v., Scene II.] ERNEST. 85 

Owen. This is her answer, as she bade me bear it : 

" Go say to Ernest, I am well, and send him 

" This lock of hair — he used to praise my hair ; 

" And look you take this message, word for word ; 

" Fear not that I shall falter ; on the shore 

" I stand and wave my kerchief, wishing you 

" Good voyage, and a quiet port." 
Ernest. Sweet girl ! 

By God, she is a ransom for the world, 

A gage against the very realm of heaven ! 

And I a canting rogue, a clod, unworthy 

To kiss her heel ! So, lie thou there, sweet spoil 

Of yonder stricken dove ! 

{Putting the hair into his bosom.) 
Owen. Believe me, friend. 

She shall not lack a brother, while the heart 

Beats in this breast of mine ! 'Tis growing late ; 

If there be aught of service T can do you, 

Commend it to me now ; I must depart. 

I read the resolution in your eyes ; 

I'll not enquire your purpose. Good be with you ! 

Good-bye, my boy ! 
Ernest. Good-bye ! good-bye, old fellow ! 

(Exit Owen.) 
" Good voyage ! " 

Not " Au revoir / " — that is but sorry cheer ! 

Yet she is right ; the man that looks for nothing 

Counts as clear profit all that fortune sends; 

Hope is a shifting and mercurial spirit, — 

Mercurial in his lies and in his heels — 

I will not trust him for a pennyworth 

Unless he brings his money in his hand. 



86 COTHURNUS AND LYRE. 

So let it be " good voyage ; " let me think 

That I am launched upon a lonely ocean, 

Bound where the winds may drive me, and foredoomed 

Never again to see the cliffs of home. 

Nor the white kerchief of my own true love 

Fluttering adown the beach. 

Sometimes I dream of immortality 
And such high themes, while the great organ thunders 
Beneath I know not what aerial feet 
That make the solemn keys their stepping-stones 
From sweet Elysian meadows golden-shored j 
Or when I view yon dome of empyrean, 
Whose vast magnificence of spanless height 
Dwarfs the ecliptic to a clothier's yard : 
But though I dream, illusion is my foe; 
Mine is a brain that fancies cannot feed ; 
And so I feel no comfortable staff 
To succor me along the Stygian vale ; 
Yet I am fearless — should I fear to sleep 1 

— Hold there ! to sleep ? how know I whether death 
Be sleep or waking 1 " fear to sleep " quoth I ! 
That's a most vile petition of the question ; 
All's one for that ! what, should I fear the rack. 
The flayer's knife, the thumbscrew, the slow fire. 
Or all the tortures of the Holy Office ? 
I fear no mortal nor immortal thing 
Save one, dishonor — which I vanquish now 
For ever ! for if any spark of soul 
Survive my breath, no dark and sordid lantern 
Confines it more — unsullied as the stars 
Behold it burn, invulnerable as air ! 
— But if I be extinguished, body and soul. 



Act v., Scene II.l EBNEST. grj 

What need I fear 1 the jangle of the forum. 
The clashing arms of mighty states, the roar 
Of the world's stithy, and the plaintive lowings 
Of this poor patient herd of humankind. 
Shall never pierce my turfy canopy. 
Nor shake the pillows where my head shall rest 
Among the germins of sweet living things 
That aye renew the world, nor fright the cattle 
From grazing o'er me, nor make pale the flowers 

That my sweet Eva 

There, there's the sting of it ! this pays for all ! 
'Tis like the parting of the flesh and skin 
To quit thee thus, my girl ! 

Peace ! no more dallying ! 
(Unlocks cabinet, produces bottle of poison, out of which he fills a glass.) 
ye infernal and malicious powers. 

Step-fathers of mankind, whose cruel care 

Howls in the tempest, hurls the pestilence. 

Lays bare the nerve of agony and tears 

And fills the hungry mouth with evil things ! 

The game of chess that you and I are waging 

Draws to a close ; the bird of victory 

Perches with you — my forces are dissolved 

Before your onslaught — I have scarce a pawn 

To guard my standard — but I scorn to yield ! 

What ! I am English ! I ignore defeat ! 

Postpone your paeans — I have one more move — 

Stale-mate ! 

(Drinks off the poison.) 

Now clear the board ! in other worlds 



88 COTHURNUS AND LYRE. 

We'll try the fortunes of the game anew ; 

There lies my gage ! 

{Hurling glass to the floor.) 

Aha ! my medicine works ! 

{Reds and falls heavily in a swoon. Enter Owen ttnd Eva, who raise 

him and lay him upon a couch ; he recovers consciousness, and exit 

Owen.) 
Ernest. What, Eva, is it thou ] 
Eva. Yes, dear, 'tis I. 

Ernest. Poor widowed maiden mine ! thy radiant sweetness 

And simple mildness made thy presence ever 

Like the soft splendor of unclouded skies 

Emerging after showers ; but fair morning, 

I am the black and boisterous thundercloud 

That overcasts thy brightness with a pall 

Funereal, flinging tears upon thy face ! 

Forgive me, dear ! 
Eva. Ernest ! do not say so ! 

What have I to forgive ? I love you always ! 

Must I forgive my eyes when they do ache % 

I suffer with you, dearest ! 
Ernest, Thanks, sweet heart 1 

Bend down your head a little ! let me see 

Or think I see your eyes. Yes, I am going ; 

Pray you,* another kiss before I die ! 

For us there waiteth in this world of earth 

No bridal torch, no clasp of wedded arms. 

No voice of children at the fireside knees ; 

Breaks at my feet the ocean — I shall sail 

To that wan world, obscure as destiny. 

Wherein our fathers rest ; and it may be 

Some subtle alchemy shall blend anew 

The elements of my soul, and I shall change 



Act v., Scene II.] ERNEST. 89 

To something other than I am, and lacking 

Memory and love of thee, and stony-cold 

To thy sweet kisses ; and between us two 

Percliance no love shall be for evermore. 

So kiss me while my lips are warm ! Good-bye ! 

Is this your hand % 



CURTAIN. 



SAMSON m CHAINS. 



SAMSOK m CHAINS. 

Stand from before me, woman ! 
I cannot see thee, but I feel thy presence 
Darkening the sunshine ; there is not anothei 
In the wide world, whose motion and whose breath 
Could thrill me thus. What hast thou come to see 1 
A blind man ? in the streets of Ascalon 
Are many such, slow moving at the heels 
Of dogs a hundredfold more true than women ; 
Go to, bestow thy pity upon strangers. 
Not upon one that loathes thee ! 

Didst thou think 
That I was longing for that lap of thine 
To lay my head in, and to fall asleep 
To the soft modulations of thy voice 
Murmuring, perchance, that lullaby thou lovest, 
" Up, the Philistines be upon thee, Samson I " 

Return ! thy husband has no home for thee ; 
These prison walls are bare of Tyrian hangings. 
And this poor pallet lacks a canopy 
Fit for thy delicate magnificence. 
But if thou cravest homely cheer and welcome 
Go thou to Zorah, to my father's house. 
And seek the poor old man, whose aged lips 
Have kissed thee like a daughter many a time ; 
Seek him, I say ; thou needst not travel far ; 

(93) 



94 COTHURNUS AND LYRE. 

His feet are all too feeble to be straying ; 
Behold him where he sits among his lambs 
Upon the homestead hills, in the sweet shadow 
Of some green sycamore, and with dim eyes 
(Soon to be sightless as these empty sockets) 
Peers forth upon the sunshine, quavering 
Some song of Israel's deeds, but in himself ' 
Calling to mind the likeness of his child, 
His only son, the darling of his heart. 
Who as lie deems is haply in the field 
Smiting the foes of Israel hip and thigh ; 
Then steal thou on his musings ; do not fear ! 
He will be glad 'to see thee ; his cold hands 
Will wander through the curls of thy dark hair 
Most fatherly ; then will he ask for tidings 
Of his dear son, whether he comes or no 1 
— How wilt thou answer him ? thou wilt not dare 
To tell him, while he clings about thy neck. 
That Samson lies in a Philistine prison. 
Shorn of his lion-locks, his eye-balls reft. 
Not beaten in fair field, but basely sold 
By thee, his wife 1, 

Dalila, I loved thee 
As I did love my sight ! thou wast to me 
More than my people or their ancient faith. 
Dearer than mine own mother, for all these 
Cried out upon me when I took to wife 
Thee, a Philistine and a worshipper 
Of Dagon, the quaint god whose fishy shape 
The ships of Ashdod bear upon their prows ; 
But I was rioting in the first fine flush 
Of generous love, and jested at their prayers — 



SAMSON IN CHAINS. 95 

— The worse for me ! I was beside myself I 
What could I think to find in a Philistine 
But hissing treachery ? 

Yet I did love thee 
Dalila/ thou know'st ! and I have deemed — 
When I did hold thee fast in mine embrace. 
And thou with thy soft fingers rosy-stained 
Didst gently put aside my fell of hair. 
And laugh, and kiss the scars upon my face — 
That thou didst love me too ; but 0, my wife, 
Woe's me, thou didst not love me ! thou the while 
Wert murmuring " Now the silly sturgeon bites ! 
What sport it is ! he cannot hold out long ! 

Dagon, what a noble sacrifice 

1 bring to thee ! " — Thou liedst in thy throat ! 
Thei-e's not a man in the Philistines' country 
Can tie me to the altar of yon reptile ! 

I serve the Grod of Israel ! 

And for thee. 
Think not that thou hast earned a lofty name 
Among the patriot women that aforetime 
Subdued by pious arts their country's foes ; 
No, for I am thy husband ! the young child. 
Fruit of my loins, that must be born to thee. 
Shall curse thee for his father, and refuse 
To suck thy bloody nipples ; to all time 
Thou shalt be infamous among thy sex. 
Darling of harlots, scorn of all pure women ; 
And men shall say, of maidens that deceive, 
" False as the wife of Samson, who betrayed 
Her husband to the foe ! " 



96 COTHURNUS AND LYRE 

My Dalila, 
I hear thee weeping ; do not so, my wife ! 
Take it not thus to heart ; I spoke too harshly ; 
By God, I love thee still ! Come hither, sweetheart ! 
There is a sovereign virtue in my kisses 
To cure these bitter sobs. What hair thou hast ! 
Softer than water ; I can almost feel 
The color come and go upon thy cheeks ; 
Thou hast that perfume on thy kerchief yet ? 
I like it well. Why, so ! thou answerest cheerly ; 
I know that thou art laughing in thy heart 
To see how tame I am ; thou dost not love me ; 
Laugh on, my beauty ! I am well content 
To hold thee thus, and feel thy light caresses. 
Though they be falser than the wiles of Jacob 
Who stole his brother's blessing. 

But for these 
Thy countrymen, my foes — the Lord reward them ! — 
I have defiance only, and a hatred 
Incurable as blindness ; let them kill me. 
Or, by my head, I shall arise in fury 
And smite them with a slaughter fifty-fold 
Greater than that of Lehi, when I thirsted 
For water, like a woodman spent with hewing ; 
My locks are lusty ; they will stream anew 
Like the black cedars upon Lebanon ; 
Then let them look to it ! the girls of Gaza 
Shall have enow of the Philistine purple 
To dye their kirtles for a hundred harvests ! 
Despair and Vengeance, keen and hungry dogs, 
Shall snuff me out the quarry, and conduct me 



sAMsojv m ciiAms. 97 

With bloody strings — 

—What 1 who is this that dares 
To pluck my beard ! uncircumcised barbarian. 
Get hence before I make my spring and show thee 
Whether the bees build honey in my mouth ! 
—Give me a nettle or a wheaten straw 
That I may beat this whipster into bran ! 
Stand back, I say ! 

Apeii. 13, 1877. 



ODES. BOOK L 



I. TO lOLE. 

November winds are wailing, and the meadows ^ 
Are nibbled by the frost ; the naked trees 
Shorn of their leafy draperies 
Project attenuated shadows. 

Or if perchance an aged leaf still lingers, 
Ragged it hangs, and russet as a toad, — 
Spoil'd of the autumn hues that glow'd 
Mellow as morning's golden fingers. 

The summer birds repose in summer's bosom. 
The butterflies are gone, and in the bowers 
Where blush'd of late a thousand flowers, 
Scarce blows a solitary blossom. 

And mothers by the midnight hearths are sighing 
For sailor sons upon the stormy seas. 
And many a maiden on her knees 
To unrelenting skies is crying. 

The months are mad, for wintertime is over ! 

Comest thou not, friend, from the fair East, 
Bearing the lilies on thy breast 

And redolent of thyme and clover % 

No need of summer suns, now thou art present ; 
The wild winds lie ; it is the mildest May ; 
With daisy-stars the fields are gay ; 

The woods and dewy lanes are pleasant 

(101) 



102 COTHURNUS AND LYRE. 

With hawthorn breezes ; the young lambs are playing 
Blithe on the grass ; the cuckoo is about ; 
Lilacs and chestnut-blooms are out. 

And rosy blossom-clouds are swaying 

Among fresh leaves ; and look, the lark is winging 
To crimson skies warm with the morning's kiss, 
And frenzied with melodious bliss 

High in the heavens I hear him singing. 
November, 1875. 



II. TO lOLE. 



Lo the gods hate us, and the fiery feet 
Of Nemesis pursue us, pausing never ; 
And o'er the noontide radiance ever 

Comes cloud, and sourness after sweet ! 

No shrine we tend ; to nought of heaven we pray ; 
No altar glows with incense of our burning ; 
And so the slighted gods are turning 

Their vengeful thunderbolts this way. 

Should Fortune guide us into smoother seas. 

And thou and I and sunshine dwell together, 
Megaera tugs our slackening tether. 
And like the dreadful Destinies 

Thy suitors come. One blows an amorous flute. 
Another coughs with querulous iteration j 
One sits in stony adoration 

Meekly and mercifully mute. 



ODES. BOOK L 2-3. 103 

Accursed race ! The fair Daniiides 

Had reason ; and for me, I drain a beaker 
Of ruby-red Falernian liquor 

To their immortal memories. 

November 11, 1875. 



III. TO PAN, 

SON of Chaos, hush thy plaintive reeds ! 
Thy leopard-skin is warm ; why art thou fain 
To taste ambrosia, and on purple stars 
Pillow thy head 1 thy hoofs and shaggy knees 
Were fitter for the stall ; content thyself : 
The heavens already have their Capricorn. 

Far in the caves of ocean Echo dwells, 

Or pois'd a-tiptoe on the eagle's crag. 

Or couch'd with Iris in the silver hair 

Of some wild waterfall ; pursue her not : 

Her pure aerial essence may not mix 

With aught that smells of earthly ; cease, Pan ! 

Wilt thou contend in melody with him. 

The bright-hair'd son of Leto 1 dost thou dare 

With miserable straws to counterfeit 

The deathless music of the golden lyre 

Of him that leads the chorus of the stars 1 

Depart, and roll with Midas in the hay ! 

What meanest thou to let thy goatish heart 
Heave unto bursting, and the foolish tears 
Plouah thine ancestral cheeks 1 wilt thou assuage 



104 COTHUBNUS AND LYRE. 

The inexorable fates 1 or will thy throes 
Aid thee to climb the cold Olympian heights % 
Leave weeping ; crop the clover and be still ! 

Take to thyself a wife of the she-goats. 

And spurn her not ; at home in Arcady 

They love thee ; there the meads of asphodel 

And saffron are, soft to the flying feet 

Of thy SAveet nymphs and thee ; nor shalt thou spare 

To crush the cluster'd nipples of the vine. 

Hymettus hath his flowers, nor Hybla less. 
Fresh, honey-spilling ; under the thick trees 
The grass is cool, and cool the glassy stream 
That mocks Narcissus with his darling's eyes ! A 
The winds are balm ; and on the sunny slopes 
The goats thy fellows browse and bask and sleep. 

November 23, 1875. 



ly. AD URBEM ET ORBEM. 

The grace of audience ! It is glorious weather ; 
The hemisphere of heaven is one clear vase 
Blown out of pure and violet ether ; 
It is the pearl of winter days. 

The steely surface of the lake is ruffled 

With undulations fine as pencill'd hairs ; 

And though the streamlet's voice is muffled, 
And sober weeds the landscape wears. 



ODES. BOOK I. 4. 105 

Yet something of the summer's bloom is haunting 
The fluted pillars of the Palisades, 

And homely hawthorn-trees are flaunting 
In scarlet down the sombre glades. 

It is the sacrosanct and solemn season 

Of Thanksgiving — and they that list may praiy ; 
But they shall show me better reason 
Ere I do thank the gods this day. 

Though like a candidate the heavens are beaming 
With brows of morning mildness blossom-blue. 
And warm the sunny rays are streaming. 
And Nature condescends to woo, 

I am not grateful ; I accept the present 

As some shght recompense for injuries past ; 
This temper of the skies is pleasant — 
But I have borne the bitter blast 

And shiver 'd in the snow. Must I be grateful 
Hound-like, for happiness which is my right "? 
Fawn and lick hands for every plateful 1 
Have I not suflfer'd I By this light 

I swear the heavens are in my debt, and deeply ! 
Women may kneel, and men of meeker mood ; 
I do not sell my thanks so cheaply : 
Nor, had I cause for gratitude, 

Wu3uld I adore a mute mysterious essence. 
Nor glorify the lightnings and the skies, 
Nor bow before a muffled presence ; 
I ply my trade with open eyes. 



106 COTEUBNUS AND LYRE. 

But when I find a fair and gentle creature 
Like lole, for ever warm and sweet, 
With all the homage of my nature 
I kiss the ground before her feet. 

What ho ! a bowl of Caecuban, good fellow, 
And ripe and rosy let the vintage be ! 

Let's taste your brew ; ay so — 'tis mellow ! 
Now, friends, a bumper ! — " lole ! " 
November, 1875. 



V. TO NE^RA. 

Siren of sixteen summers, whose bright eyes 

Shoot sunbeams from beneath their feathery fringes 
Whose brow and cheek the rich blood tinges 
With crimson as of sunset skies. 

Cease ! I am ware of each enchanting wile ; 

Vainly for me thy nut-brown eyes are glowing. 
In vain the Punic rose is blowing 
About the dimples of thy smile. 

I know thee fickle as I deem thee fair ; 

Unmov'a I hear thy limpid laughters ringing. 
Or view thee o'er thy shoulders flinging 
Billows of hyacinthine hair. 

Breakers ahead ! — That heaving heart of thine 
Rings hollow to the strokes of sweet emotion. 
For thou art pitiless as the ocean. 
And bitter as the barren brine. 



dDES. BOOK I. 5-6. 107 

In vain — ah gods, what means this agony ] 

Ho, brothers, bind me fast ! my force is failing ! 
Pull, merry men all ! I would be sailing 
The waters of a shallower sea. 
Januaky, 1876. 



YI. TO MYSELF. 

Five lustres, myself, are now no more 

Since first thy mother launch'd thee in the world, 
And still, with idle pinions furl'd, 

Thy bark is moor'd beside the shore. 

What doest thou 1 behold, the world is large • 
Cathay, Cipango, and the kingdoms old 
Of Zengis, have of pearl and gold, 
And cool by Arethusa's marge 

The iris waves ; about Soracte's crests 

Trail the lush vines, and by Circassian streams 
The maids are lovelier than thy dreams, 
With rosy arms and swan-soft breasts. 

Arise ; emerge ; unruffled is the sleep 

Of ocean ; thee the winds and waters call ; 
Mayst hear the Tritons one and all 
Dancing a hundred fathom deep. 

Throw off that Stoic mantle ! flesh and blood 
Have no philosophy ; learn of the swine ! 
Maidens and music, verse and wine, 
I<3,ughter and love, alone are good. 



108 COTHUBNUS AND LYRE. 

What though the gods are deaf, and Destiny 

Stony of brow, and Fortune hides her smile *? 

Thou hast the present all the while : 

Surely it is enough for thee 

To dip thy fingers in Leuconoe's hair ; 

Pluck the full moment ! quaff the golden hours. 
Not without laughter ! scatter flowers. 
And hold afar the feet of Care ! 

Nor do thou shun the flowing Cascuban, 

Nor spurn — 'tis Christmastide — the mistletoe ; 
Troll us a catch, Malvolio, 

And quit the part of Puritan ! 

Look ! there is Laura with her tresses down ; 
Follow her ! she is fair, and not so coy ! 

Why, this is brave ! Here's luck, my boy I 
I know the maiden will not frown. 
January, 1876. 



YII. EROTIC. 

Courage, mateless man, despis'd and rejected of women ! 
Courage ! the halls of thy heart shall thrill to the touch of a 
footstep. 

Ay, she will come in the flesh, the dream-seen beautiful mai- 
den ; 
Ay, she wiircome, she will come ; I scent her afar as the clover. 

Through the ignoble crowd her white feet glimmer, I know it! 
Over the mountain, down the ravine, she is dawning, I feel it) 



ODES, BOOK I. 7. 109 

Ay, though I know her not, though her eyes are hidJen in 

shadow, 
Though the sweet souad of h«r voice never yet stole into my 

slumber, 

Somewhere in orient lands first-kiss'd of Che Mps of the morn- 
ing. 

Somewhere among the woods that blaze with splendors of 
evening 

Still she abides ; but straight as a bee to the heart of the 

blossom, 
True as a dove to her nest, young Love shall bring her beside 

me, 

Blushful, morning-red, with broken luminous glances 
Flashing and falling and flashing like interrupted music. 

Tresses honey-bright, like sunny stretches of water, 
Leaping and laughing between the primrose hills of her 
bosom ! 

Hasten, love ; for like as the earth desire th the spring-time. 
Like as the beggar fire, so hunger I for thy presence ! 

Ha ! the meadow-flowers unclose them, hitherward gazing ! 
What is this 1 I hear a whisper, a step on the threshold — 
May, 1876. 



110 COTSUHNUS AND LYRE. 



VIII. AT RANDOM. 

Aha ! the clouds have taken wing ; 

Save here and there a snowy stray. 
That flits, a slight and callow thing. 

Across the forehead of the day. 

Pan pipes autumnal everywhere, 

And, with a thyrsus dipp'd in wijie. 

Dashes the tree-tops here and there — 
The maple flushes, and the vine 

Fires, and the lusty lifeblood glances 

Through yonder oak-tree's veined hands, 

And like a smoke the poplar dances 

Above the chesnut's burning brands. 

To-day is like an open flower 

Whose breast I feed at like a bee ; 

What, boy ! we'll snatch the golden hour ; 
The gods have made this day for thee. 

you divine Olympian chorus. 

We thank you, since you deign at last 
To set so fair a feast before us ; 

Bram! we will forgive the past. 

What's this 1 a flower ! in far October ! 

Hush ! we may find, if we have luck, 
Some fairy Bardolph, scarce yet sober, 

With charcoal beard, the gift of Puck, 



OBES. BOOK I. 8. \\\ 

Or some belated Oberon 

That flirted overlong last night, 
Who hides him inch-deep from the sun 

And whistles loud to drown his fright. 

The time invites ; we will recline 

On this dry turf, beneath the shade 

Of yon blood-red Virginian vine : 
But that here we had a maid ! 

Neaera say, or rosy Myrrha, 

Or shy sweet Hero — modest flower ; 

Ripe Lalage, or fair-haired Pyrrha, 

Whose gipsy hat hides all her dower. 

Or Margaret, with her plumy lashes 

And eyes in ambush darting doom ; 

Or saucy Kate, whom nought abashes ; 
Or Clara with her wine-dark bloom : 

Or Lilian with her waxen skin, 

Red lips, and pretty pouting speech, 

And that soft-moulded cloven chin 
In shape and color like the peach. 

What ! play the Timon to your guest. 

Ye gods % and mingle sour with sweet 1 
Beshrewme! 'tis a sorry jest 

To serve the sauce without the meat ! 
October 8, 1876. 



112 COTHURNUS AND LYRE. 



IX. TO FORTUNE. 

Thou liest, Fate ! I'll not submit. 
Pent thus, to grind an alien corn 

For ever ; I shall rise and sit. 

Dew-laden, on the wings of morn ! 

Ay, drive your screws and rivets tauter. 
And forge the cauldron like a flint I 

But look you, I am boiling water. 

And I shall rend your bands like lint t 
October 20. 1876. 



X. TO LEUCONOE. 

Here comes Leuconoe in her snowy kirtle. 
Her bosom heaving like a wind-whipt sea. 
Her milky brows entwin'd with myrtle. 
Her soft arms free. 

Fair maiden, let me speak as your physician ; 
Those rosy pulses are a thought too warm — 
— Hush, lady ! let me do my mission ; 
I mean no harm ; 

But hide the swellings of that fond emotion, 
For lie is here ; you must not let him know 
What furrows in your young heart's oCigaQ 
His breath can blow. 
November 5, 1876. 



ODES. BOOK I. 11. 113 



XI. TO A YOUNG WRITER, 

I LIKE Laconian utterances, young man ! 

• Give me good carrying coin, not silver-foil 
Thin as a shadow, woven coil on coil, 
Nor minted moonshine sparkling spick-and-span. 

These cowries, current with the scribes of news. 
What are they worth ? a shilling for a sack 
Heavy enough to break the Titan's back ! 

Words have a value ; put them out at use. 

New-made and barbarous words do not befit 
A scholar's lips ; the rapid quill runs red 
With blood that oozes from poor Priscian's head ; 

And much quotation marks a barren wit. 

Spare us the trite ; hide with a decent veil 
Your itch of moralizing, or at most 
Expose it to your wife ; who plays the host 

Offends in offering dainties that are stale. 

Speak the king's English only ; leave to fools 
And mountebanks their motley ; fiddlestick 
For all your tawdry tinsel rhetoric ! 

What should a workman do with gilded tools 1 

Yet show a taste in phrases ; please our ears 

With sound, but let your lutestrings never creak ; 
Be brief; and have a care you do not speak 
The tongue of aldermen and auctioneers. 
"anuary 8, 1877. 



114: COTHUENUS AND LYRE. 

XII. TO SLEEP. 

Come from the horned moon, merciful. 
And move about the chamber where she lies — 
Not silently, but with a pleasant sound 
Of wings and flowing garments ; wind thine arms 
Kound her, and lay the cool soft cheek of thee 
Against her like a babe upon the breast. 

What, art thou unacquainted with the good 
And pitiless to the pure 7 canst thou behold 
This daisy drooping with her petals wide, 
Unvisited by the dews, untouch'd of thee. 
Without compassion 1 when didst thou become 
The handmaid of the dark Eumenidesi 

Ah, turn thy shining footsteps, gracious one, 
Thitherward ; breathe the clover and the rose ; 
Weave all the finer spells of melody 
About her ; let her dreams be light and sweet. 
Sown with kind faces and clear golden days 
And waters musical among the reeds. 
January 17, 1877. 



XIII. TO PHCEBUS APOLLO. 

God, have pity and enfranchise me ! 
Hast thou forgotten me, my God, my God 7 
Dost thou behold me how this many a year 

1 am become a scrivener for my bread. 

Spite of the rainbow-scarf that ma,rks me thine, 
Begotten of thy glory and mens' tears % 



ODES. BOOK I. 13. 



115 



******* 
******* 

* * * * * * * 
******* 

* ****** 

******* 



But thou, thy lyre and lustre laid aside, 
Still as thine own white statue, and as cold 
As thy less lovely sister, sleepest fast, 
Couch'd in the shadow of a summer cloud, 
Lull'd by the babble of the ferny rills. 
The sea-like sighing of Dodonian oaks. 

What have I done ^ what have I spar'd to do. 
That thou so scornest me 1 dost thou require 
Fasting and flagellation, and the sound 
Of orisons and vespers in thy praise 7 
So be it if thou wilt ; but, my God, 
Give me a cittern and my liberty! 

Arise, and aim afar one sunny shaft 
Against this heart of mine, and lay me low ! 
And as to sedgy Simois thou didst bear 
The slain Sarpedon, soil'd with battle-sweat. 
So bear me hence, God, and let me sleep 
Beside the hly-pools of Castaly ! 

Ah, thy Parnassus, God, is hard to climb ! 
And I should quit my staflf and sandal-shoon 
For ever, and forego the laurel crown, 
Had I not now and then the grace to hear 
Beyond the morning tops thy golden lyre 
Sounding unutterable symphonies. 
May 1 1877. {Secfynd stanza guppmsed.) 



116 COTHURNUS AND LYRE. 



XIY. TO O. B. FROTHmGHAM. 

Tell me, Octavius (for I seek a sign) 
Where dost thou find this gentle God of thine 1 
Under the veil of what mysterious waters. 
Or couch'd in what soft shadows of the vine 1 

Pent in what pearly prison lingers he 
Of all the silver shells that line the sea 1 

Or in what steeple-corner is he spinning 
The innumerable web of destiny ? 

Clings he like Ariel to the cool white breast 
Of some fair lily far from human quest. 

While with the quaint sweet carols of the flower-folk 
His meadow-mother sings him to his rest 1 

Poor little godling ! doth he live or die 7 
Quick, call the surgeons ! haply they shall spy 

His breath upon the mirror of the ocean. 
Or light upon him as they probe the sky, 

I find him not ; that other face I find, 
— God's, if you will, but female of its kind, — 
Capricious as a bird, glorious as morning. 
Fierce as a wolf, and fickle as the wind. 

We all do know and hate her ; she hath flung 
Smiles at us, and her lips to ours have clung, 

— Then, presto ! she hath toss'd us in her talons 
And roll'd us writhing on her cruel tongue. 



ODES. BOOK I. 14-15. 117 

She holds the thunder ; let your God beware, 
Or she will drag him trembling from his lair, 
And send him Avith a posy to her minion 
Or bind him for a bauble in her hair. 

For me, I hear the people groan and curse, 
I see the world slide on from worse to worse. 
Whilst like a fly your tiny God is riding 
Upon the car- wheels of the universe. 

Cry, cry aloud ! hath he not answer'd thee 1 
Gash thee, and cry ! a mighty God is he ; 

Cry, and spare not ! his aged eyes are weary, 
He drives the deer, or pukes, or ploughs the sea. 

In what Plutonian cave or Idrian mine 

Hides he his head, this gracious God of thine 1 

What, must we bait him with a mouse's morsel, 
Or angle for him with a rod and line '? 
September 6, 1877. 



XV. m PRAISE OF LUCRETIA.* 

Whom the gods destine for Lucretia's hand 
Shall have the hap of him that springs at dawn 
Into the golden chariot of the sun 
With Eo. From the meadows of the morn 
Radiant they rise, and all her honey 'd hair 
Floats, dropping dewy light ambrosial. 
About him ; backward far the veil of night 
Rolls thick with stars, and like a babe the earth 
Looks up and laughs ; nor in the rosy rack 



118 ^COTHUMNUS AND LYRE. 

Linger they long, but with a steady pole 
Emerging, on the open sward of sky 
They move majestic, and beneath their wheels 
Ablaze the saffron springs ; about them go 
The maiden Hours with song : so to the top 
Of the meridian's hill they climb, and thence 
Point for the gates of eve ; the earth is glad 
Because of them, and of their bounteous hands 
Scattering the seeds of good ; nor less the joy 
Within the breast of these, who know themselves 
Workers of weal ; for them the ocean waits 
Unruffled, spreading wide his gracious arms, 
And not without the gods they sink to sleep. 

But he that laps him in Lycoris' arms 
Mounts in the selfsame car with other hap 
When Phaethon, rash boy, is at the reins. 
The high clouds flame above him, and the East 
Frowns boding ; the black thunder broods afar. 
Low-growling in the leash ; but heeding not, 
He smites with untried whip his noble steeds 
Erst virgin of the lash — they with a plunge 
Rake ope the bowels of heaven, and out of doors 
The sulphurous lightning springs, and into space 
Hurls the wreck'd chariot, and a great eclipse 
Snuffs out the glimmering day ; the golden wheels 
Start from their axles, and like falling stars 
Flash downward through the mirk; but he, the boy, 
— Torn from his place, and screaming like a bird — 
Clings yet with aching and distorted arm 
To the taut reins, that into fiery snakes 
Change in his grasp, and round his blackening throat 



ODES. BOOK L 15-17. 119 

Wind them like whips — then heels he down, down, down, 
Interminably down, while at his ear 
Alecto howls, and half to the crackling heavens 
Leaps the huge ocean with a hungry roar. 
November 6, 1877. 



XVI. UNENTITLED. 

This night I dreamt of her. damned Fate, 

Why wilt thou heap these injuries on my head "? 

By God, 'tis base to mock me thus with shadows 
That come with Tantal-kissea to my bed. 

And eyes that smile too late ! 

Why didst not grant me an o'erflowing purse. 
Lies, and a knavish heart, and let me be 1 

Then might I gather in the goodliest meadows, 
But there's no wage for honest probity 
Save court sies and a curse ! 
November 13, 1877, 4 .a m. 



XVII. TO AULUS JULIUS RUFUS. 

When shall I have thee here again, my boy. 
To push the pieces on the blazon'd board 1 

Dost thou not kindle with a martial joy. 

And thirst to see the blood of pawns outpour'd % 

Still stand the old St. George's spires, and still 

Clangs the loud clock the unconscionable hours 

That thou and I, my friend, were wont to fill 

With clash of arms, and shock of hostile powers. 



120 COTHUBNUS AND LTBE, 

Some Vandal hand, alas, hath lopp'd the boughs 
Of those fair willows that erewhile did wave 

Athwart the road ; but what ! we'll drink a rouse ! 
Come, boy, and earn a triumph or a grave ! 

Dost thou remember that historic night 

When, while thy fortunes were at point of wreck. 

Thy queen decoy'd me by a Parthian flight. 

Then turn'd and foil'd me with ' perpetual check 7 

Or how in one fierce fight (it was, methinks. 
An Evans Gambit) I had found a way 

To sever one by one your army's links. 

When, calling a brief truce, we left the fray 

To pour libations unto Father Jove, 

Who heard your prayers, insidious ! for to you 

He gave the forging of that mighty move 
That overpaid the debt of Waterloo. 

Yet not without my trophies I have warr'd. 
And many an ivory foeman have I slain 

Upon the squares of yonder chequer'd sward ; 
Ay, and I dare thee to the lists again I 

My knights and yeomen, stout and stubborn fighters, 
Do snuff the battle, couching lance in rest ; 

My bishops dance the Pyrrhic in their mitres ; 
My castles lift an unabated crest. 

My queen is pensive ; sure, she is in love 

With some sly Theseus of thine amorous horde ; 

We may not part them thus. There lies my glove ! 
Come, and I'll prove thee traitor with my sword ! 
November 15, 1877. 



ODES. BOOK I. 18. 121 



xvni. TO A termhstal head of apollo. 

God the golden-hair'd, how like a spy 

Thou settest thee beside my threshing-floor, 

And with a glance of thine imperious eye 

Stayest my steps, when I would fain explore 

The fertile continents of Poesy ! 

That frown becomes not thine immortal brow, 
Cynthius I what, art thou Terminus indeed % 

Wink, wink, I pray thee, whilst I turn my plough 
About the corners of yon sunny mead ! 

These ancient bards, God wot, have room enow. 

Shakespeare's broad acres, boundless as the main. 
One plot of breezy pasture well might spare ; ^ 

And Horace would not grudge a rood or twain 
Of his fat Tusculan fields and vineyards fair. 

Nor Chaucer stint his sheaves of golden grain. 

Who hath espous'd the everlasting sea. 
The unpolluted air, the virgin moon I 

Who may pretend to a monopoly 

Of April violets, or the rose of June % 

Who dares restrain the poet's liberty 1 

—Thou "?— softly, my good God ! softly, I say ! 

Thinkest thou, Phoebus, that I come to steal % 
Not so ! I fain would use, as all men may, 

The public meadows of the commonweal ; 
I claim no interest, but a right of way. 



122 COTEURNUS AND LYME. 

Can nothing move thee, silent sentinel 1 

By Pollux ! Dis himself were not so stern ! 

Ill get an easier-going god — farewell ! 

Thy brother Mercury will serve my turn j 

He knows to smite the silver-stringed shell. 
November 20, 1877. 



NOTES 



(123) 



NOTES. 

a. On the play of "Ernest." 

This drama is not intended for the stae:e in its present shape. No 
modem audience would endure the long monologues and dialogues of the 
first and fifth acts, unrelieved as they are "by dramatic incident ; but with 
judicious excision the piece might possibly be adapted for representa- 
tion. On the other hand, some of the lighter prose scenes, which may 
appear feeble or trivial to the reader in his cabinet, would create a bet- 
ter impression when acted upon the boards by players experienced in their 
art. 

b. " Tit-o-reen "—wren ; " bull-french "—bull-finch. These words are 
from the peasants' dialect of Somersetshire. 

c. "Glory de John." Our friend John probably means Gloire de 
Dijon, a fine variety of rose. 

(?. " I had a dream, etc." This was an actual dream of the author's. 

e. It is to be noticed that according to English law Owen and Eva, had 
they a real existence, would by their behavior in this scene lay them- 
selves open to indictment as accessories to mftrder. So much for the 
wisdom of our ancestors ! 

/. I have followed Milton's spelling and pronunciation of the word 
Dalila, although not without misgivings. 

g. " November winds are wailing," &c. 

I have invented this metre (which appears, with modifications, in sev- 
eral of the odes) with the intention of reproducing the general effect of 
the Alcaics so dear to Horace. Quite recently, however, happening upon 
a volume of Professor Conington's Horace, I discovered that he had 
already constructed a very similar stanza in imitation of what is known 
as the Fifth Asclepiad— the metre of the Qij,is multd gracilis and the 

(125) 



126 NOTES. 

O fans Bandusiae. There is, however, a sufficiently marked distinction 
between Mr. Conington's metre and my own. 

h. " That mocks Narcissus with his darling's eyes "— i. e. his sister's. 
According to the version of the myth which I prefer, Narcissus was a 
beautiful boy, the image of an only sister. She having died, Narcissus 
betook himself daily to a clear stream of water, wherein he might behold 
his sister's countenance reflected in his own ; for which piety the gods 
transformed him into the flower which bears his name. 

i. It has never been my fortune to read any of the descriptions of 
Phaethon's career which exist in the ancient poets. It is therefore not 
improbable that in this ode I may have unwittingly repeated the inci- 
dents and the imagery of earlier writers ; in which case I have only my 
ignorance to plead. The same observation applies to almost all of my 
themes in the antique manner, the only exceptions, I think, being the 
ode To Nesera and an unpublished piece, both of which may be called 
rsemi-imitations of Horace. 



THE AUTHORS' PUBLISHING COMPANY'S 

irsiAr BOOSTS. 



The Authors' Publishing Company tvill send any of tJie 
following hooks hy mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the 
United States, on receipt of the price. 

New Plan op Publishing {explanatory pamphlet) mailed free to authors 

and ivriters. 
Descriptite Catalogue mailed on receipt of stamp, or supplied free on ap 

plication in person, at the Companx's Office, 

27 BOND ST., NEW YORK. 

Evolution and Progress: 

An Exposition and Defence. Tlie Foundation of 
Evolution Pliilosophically Expounded, and its Argu- 
ments (divested of insignificant and distracting pliysical 
details) succinctly stated; together with a review of 
leading opponents, as Dawson and Winchell, and 
quasi-opponents, as Le Conte and Carpenter. By Rev. 
W1LI.IAM I. Gill, A. M., of Newark Conference, 
N. J. The first volume of the International Prize 
ISeries. Third Edition. Cloth extra, imitation 
morocco, fine paper, 295 pp., 12mo., Price . $1 50 
Each volume in this series was awarded a prize of Two 
Hundred Dollars in addition to copyright, in a competition 
which was open one year to the world, and where over three 
hundred manuscripts were submitted and read. 

DESCRIPTIVE OPIIflONS OF EVOLUTION AND PROGHESS. 

One of our most candid and thoughtful writers.— Dr. Crane. 

.He is a clear and strong reasouer, —Cincinnati Christian Standard. 

*A particularly strong argument.— ^vansoiZie {Ind.) Daily Journal. 

It is ably written. Builds on philosophical principles.— i^roofcZj/Ti Union. 

The attitude of Mr. Gill, and his courage in maintaining il, are worthy of 
ViOtQ .—New York World. 

I rejoice in all attempts of this kind, made in a spirit like that which 
prompts your yvov'^.— Herbert Spencer. 

His writings are marked by strong common sense, sound logic, and clear 
demonstration.— Jlfe^/iodi^i Home Journal. 

It is a book of original thinking on one of the greatest themes A 

keen, thoughtful, vigorous yoXuiwu.— Golden Age. 

He strikes with no velvet glove, but with a steel-clad hand, dealing Ms 
blows with equal profusion and impartiality.— iV^eitf York Tribune. 

His effort is earnest, able and bold It presents, in all their 

strength, thoughts and arguments which will have to be met and answered. 
Th^Methodiat, New Yori. 



THE AUTHORS' PUBLISHilirG CO.'S NEW BOOKS. 

Is Our Republic a Failure? 

A discussion of the Rights and the Wrongs of the North and 
the South. By E. H. Watson, author of " United States and 
their Origin," etc. English cloth, ink and gold, 12mo, 436 
pp. . . Price, $1.50 

In a spirit of genuine candor and unswerving impartiality.— iV". Y. Sun. 

It is fair, candid, impartial, the whole subject well treated.— Hon. J. H. 
BiiAKE, of Boston. 

1 like the spirit of the book, its comprehensive patriotism, its liberal 
spirit, and its healing counsels.— Hon. Geo. S. Hillakd, author of " Frank- 
lin Headers,'^ " Six 3Ionths in Italy,'" etc. 

I read the manuscript with much interest — an interest belonging to the 
arguments themselves, but now increased by the perfection given to the 
form and style.— Hon. Mabtin Brimmer, Boston. 

Lucid and just. The method of the argument, the facts on which it pro- 
ceeds, and the conciliatory spirit which invests them, contribute to the book 
a value which cannot be too highly estimated.— Gen. John Cochrane. 

The principles of American statesmanship which it asserts, must essen- 
tially prevail, unless we are so soon to fall from our original high plane of 
constitutional republicanism. I shall spare no exertion to promote the 
knowledge of such an able and impartial and statesmanlike compendium of 
our present political philosophy. — Hon. John Quincy Adams, llass. 

Clearly expressed, and the argument is closely and ably maintained. The 
tone and the temper of the writer are beyond praise. They are as valuable 
as they are rare. They are those of a patriotic and philosophical observer 
of men. The like spirit everywhere difEused among our people would make 
fraternal union as certain as desirable ; and if brought to the discussion of 
public affairs, would secure the adoption of.wise and beneficent^ counsels.— 
Hon. Geo. H. Pendleton, Ohio. 

Universe of Language. 

I. — Its Nature. II. — Structure, III. — Spelling Reform. 
Comprising Uniform Notation and Classification of Vowels 
adapted to all Languages. By the late George Watson, 
Esq., of Boston. Edited, with Preliminary Essays, and a 
Treatise on Phonology, Phonotypy and Spelling Reform, by 
his daughter, E. II. Watson, author of "Is Our Republic a 
Failure 1 " etc. Cloth extra, tinted paper, 12mo, 3J:4 pp. 
Price ...... $1.50 

One of the great scientific labors of Mr. Watson's life was to segregate 
and systematize the universal elements of Language. His investigations 
•were broad and comprehensive. Miss Watson has rounded her father's 
work with worthy zeal and eminent ability ; and the result, in this volume, 
is a unique and learned contributiou to the permanent advantage and ad- 
vancement of philology. 



THE AUTHOES' PUBLISHING CO.'S ITEW BOOKS. 

Women^s Secrets; or, How to be Beautiful: 

Translated and Edited from the Persian and French, with 
additions from the best English authorities. By Lou. 
Ca^sadell, author of "Her Waiting Heart," "Hallow 
E'en," eta Pp. 100, l^mo. 

Saratoga Edition, in Scotch granite paper covers, 25 cents. 
Boudoir Edition, French grey and blue cloths, . 75 cents. 

The systems, directions and recipes for promoting Personal Beauty, as practiced for 
thousands of years by the renowned beauties of the Orient, and for securing the grace 
and charm for which the French Toilette and Boudoir are distinguished, together with 
suggestions from the best authorities, comprising History and Uses of Beauty; The Best 
Standards; Beautiful Children ; Beauty Food, Sleep, Exercise, Health, Emotions- How 
to be Fat ; How to be Lean ; How to be Beautiful and to remain so, etc., etc. 

Sumners' Poems : 

By Samuei^ B. Sumner and Charles A. Sumner. With 
Illustrations by E. Stewart Sumner, On fine tinted 
paper, 518 pp., cloth extra. Regular 12mo edition, $2.50 

morocco, ^2.50 ; 8vo, illustrated, full gilt, beveled edges. ^i.UO 

Sparkling, tender and ardent.— Philadelphia Book Buyer. 

Vivacity and good humor.— Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes. 

Brilliant and humorous, patriotic and historic. — American Monthly, Phila. 

Equal to anjiihing that is at all akin to them in " The Exciu-sion."— iV. Y. 
World. 

The Buccaneers : 

A stirring Historical Novel. By Randolph Jones, Esq. 

Largel2mo, cloth extra, ink and gold. Paper $1. Cloth ^1.75. 
Is drawn from the most daring deeds of the Buccaneers and the sharpest 
events in the early settlement of Maryland and Virginia. It is so full of 
thrilling action, so piquant in sentiment, and so thoroughly alive with the 
animation of the bold and ambitious spirits whose acts it records with ex- 
traordinary power, that the publishers confidently bespeak " The Bucca- 
neers " as the most strongly marked aad the best of all American novels 
issued during the year. 

Why Don't Fido Eat Candy ? 

By Elizabeth Murray. Square 16mo, Illustrated, 35 cents. 
Vivacious tale. — ^V. Y. Mail. 
Is a pretty story.— V. T. Eve. Telegram. 
Characters are well drawTi. — St. Louis Herald. 
A pleasant story.— Sunday School Times. 
Is a beautiful story.— Boston IZo?ne Journal. 
Will amuse the family civcle,— Kansas City Times. 



NEW BOOKS AND NEW EDITIONS 

_^ " JUST ISSUED BY 

W' THE AUTHORS' PUBLISHING COMPANY, 

27 Bond Street, New York. 



RELIGION AND SCIENCE. 

Analytical Processes; or The Primary Principle of Philosophy. Ry Rev. Wm. I. Gill, 
I mi tatlon morocco |2 00 

Beauty of the Kin<,^ A Bri f Life of Christ. By Rev. A. H. IloUoway, A.M. Cloth 
and gold, $1.00; lull gilt fl 2S 

Christiaa Couception and Kxperience. By Rev. Wm. I. Gill. A.M. Imitation mo- 
rocco $1 00 

Ecclesiology. The Fundamental Idea aud Constitution of the New Testament Churdh. 
By E.J. Fish, D.D. Cloth extra $2 00 

Evolution and Progress. An Exposiiion and Defence. By Rev, Wm. I. Gill, A.M. 
Imitation morocco $1 50 

Life for a Look. By Rev. A. H. Holloway. Paper 15 cents. 

Moffat, John, Life and Lectures of. By Rev. R. L. Abernethy. Nearly ready. 

Resurrection of the Body. Does the Bible Teach it ? By E. Nisbet, D.D. Introduc- 
tion by G. W.Samson, D.D. Cloth and gold $1 00 

Reverend Green Willingwood ; or, Life Among the Clergy. By Rev. Robert Fisher. 
Cloth extra, full gilt, beveled edges $1 25 

Universe of Language. Its Nature, Structure and Use. By late George Watson, 
of Boston. Edited by his daughter, E. H. Watson $1 50 

POLITICAL AND PRACTICAL. 

Is our Republic a Failure? A Discussion of Rights and Wrongs of the North and 
South. By E. H. Watson. Cloth and gold $1 50 

Common Sense; or, Firs^t Steps in Political Economy. With an Appendix for Schools. 
By M. R. Leverson, D.. Ph. Cloth extra $1 25 

Gold aad Free Banks. Demonetization of Gold and Silver, and Private Banks under 
Government. By M. K. Pilon. Paper, 8vo 75 cents. 

Manuscript Manual. How to Prepare Manuscripts for the Press. Paper, 8vo. .10 cents. 

Mercantile Prices and Profits. By M. R. Pilon. In press. 

Race for Wealth. Considered in a Series of Letters by a Brother and Sister. .50 cents* 

FICTION ANDf^ESTHETICS. 

Anti-Biled Shirt Club. Paper .,..35 cents. 

Buccaneers, The. Historical Novt'l of Times of William III. and Louis XIV. By 

Randolph Jones. Paper, $1.00; cloth $1 75 

Prisons Without Walls. By Kelsic Etheridge. Paper 35 cents. 

Her Waiting Heart. By Louise Capsadell. Cloth extra , $1 00 

Irene ; or, beach Broken Billows. By Mrs. B. F. Baer. Cloth $100 

Snadowed Perils. By Miss M. A. Avery. Cloth and gold $125 

Sumners' Poems. By S. B. Sumner and C. A. Sumner. Illustrated. 538 pp. Cloth 

r2mo, $2.50; large paper 8vo, fullgilt, beveled edges $4 00 

Travelers' Grab Big. A Condensed Library. Paper 35 cents. 

Why Don't Fido Eat Candy? By Elizabeth Murray. Paper, 85 cents; cloth.. 75 cents. 
Wild Flowers. Poems. By Charles W. Hubner. With portrait of author. Cloth 

and gold, $1 .00 ; beveled edges, gilt tops $1 25 

Women's Secrets ; or, How to be Beautiful. By Louise Capsadell. Paper, 25 cents. 

cloth extra, ink and gold 75 cents. 

Postpaid on receipt of price. Descriptive Catalogue free. 

MANUSCRIPT PAPER— SPECIALTY. 

Author's Manuscript Paper, 5%xll, per ream, $1 00 ; by mail $1 50 

" " heavier 53^x11, " |l 25 ; " $175 

Sermon Paper, Octavo " SI 00; " $150 

" " Bath " $140; " $2 00 

Composition Paper 5Xx8;<r, " $100; " $150 

" 7 x8X, " $125; " $175 

Specimens mailed on receipt of two Set. stamps. 

Pamphlet on the New Plan of Publishing mailed free to Authors and Writers. 



